


In a City, Reconstructed

by intravenusann



Series: In a City [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Courtroom Drama, Credence Barebone Deserves Better, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Masturbation, Newt Scamander is a Dork, Obscurial Credence Barebone, Past Child Abuse, Religious Guilt, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Trials, Veritaserum, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-09 07:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 97,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10406745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intravenusann/pseuds/intravenusann
Summary: There’s a stain on the wall in the Goldsteins’ apartment. It wasn’t there the day before, and it’s getting bigger.





	1. Every little piece

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Восставшие из руин](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10895580) by [Schwesterchen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwesterchen/pseuds/Schwesterchen)



Cover by [Syrupness](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrupness/pseuds/Syrupness)

* * *

 

A shadow haunts a corner of the sitting room in the Goldstein sisters’ apartment. If anyone looked directly at it, they might think it was a smudge of smoke from a candle set too close to the wallpaper or a bit of ash that someone forgot to point a quick scourgify at.

But everyone in the Goldstein sisters’ apartment is out when the shadow first appears — they are all being extensively questioned by MACUSA aurors.

And, even after that, they are exceptionally busy.

Firstly, men are still not permitted in Mrs. Esposito’s tenement building. The New York Ghost will surely already list Queenie’s offenses — as it had Tina’s, months ago. Mrs. Esposito will not be pleased. She might even leave her own rooms on the first floor, rather than simply yell at them up the stairs.

The sisters and Mr. Newt Scamander stand outside the building and puzzle through it.

“No, we can’t do that,” Queenie says. Her eyes are dry now, but still red-rimmed. “It’s too suspicious.”

“That’s why I didn’t say it,” Tina says, sharper than she means to.

“What?” Newt asks, softly.

“You can't go up the fire escape, honey, it's broad daylight,” Queenie says. “You’d be less obvious in... a bright pink petticoat.”

“A bright pink petticoat?” Tina repeats, horrified.

“I wouldn't be opposed to the idea,” Newt says. “If it was the most expeditious way to get upstairs.”

“Did you _really_?!” Queenie says, reacting to some thought Tina obviously can’t hear.

“Oh, no, not me,” Newt says, lifting his hands and trying to wave off Queenie’s wide-eyed curiosity. “It was my older brother.”

“Ah, well,” Queenie says. “It’s the accent, I guess. You’re too much of a gentleman to try sneaking into a girls’ dormoritory.”

“What?” Tina says, now loudly horrified.

“It was my brother — my _brother_ ,” Newt says. He sets his suitcase down gently and pulls out his wand.

“If you think this will work—” he begins to say, moving his wand in the familiar patterns of transfiguration.

“Not out here in the street!” Tina shouts, her voice strangled in her throat.

They duck into an alley together, leaving Queenie to supervise the suitcase alone.

When they emerge again, Newt’s baggy trousers are a smart grey skirt with a matching jacket. His coat fits a bit closer and his wool socks have turned into silk stockings. He’s kept his tie, though it makes a bit of a fuller-looking bow.

“Now don’t you look pretty as a picture,” Queenie says, obviously delighted. Newt looks at his shoes, which are a bit more like heeled boots at the moment.

“Just don’t say anything,” Tina says.

“You know what you need, honey?” Queenie says. “A hat! You’ve just got to have a hat with that outfit.”

She conjures up a bright teal cloche that perfectly matches Newt’s coat, but clashes terribly with the red in his cheeks. Tina groans.

“Are we done?” she asks.

Mrs. Esposito does, in fact, stop them on the stairs. Queenie sacrifices herself to the woman’s nosiness, and feels Newt and Tina’s relief wrap around her like a priceless mink scarf.

“Oh, yes, it was horrible,” Queenie says. “The No-Majs were even worse than the Obscurious.”

She says it the way Mrs. Esposito does — not pronouncing the word quite right.

It’s exactly what Mrs. Esposito thinks, and she doesn’t sense a hint of sarcasm in Queenie. When Queenie wipes her eyes, their landlady thinks that she must be terribly shaken. Her nerves have always been much more delicate than her sister’s.

“I don’t know how I could have let this happen,” Queenie says, her voice quaking.

Mrs. Esposito barely notices the other woman with Tina Goldstein, but she’s dressed very boringly. Must be a coworker. Everyone knows how those career girls are — uninterested in marriage and makeup charms.

Once Tina has shut the door behind her, she watches Newt turn his clothes back into their proper shape before he sets down his suitcase.

“Your suitcase!” she says, smacking her hand against her thigh.

“My suitcase?” Newt asks. “What — what about my suitcase?”

“We could’ve snuck you up here in your suitcase!” Tina says.

“Oh!” Newt says. “Of course. Of course, why didn’t I think of that? Well, this was certainly more interesting, I must say. And now your — Mrs. Esperanto knows there’s someone else up here, so she won’t be surprised to hear anything odd.”

“Esposito,” Tina says, softly.

“Yes, Mrs. Esposito,” Newt says. “She seems very… overly involved.”

Tina groans, “She _is_.”

For a short moment, neither of them thinks about the events of the day. Tina isn't able to think about much beyond Newt’s calves in silk stockings. Newt mostly thinks about how strange Americans can be — and about sexual dimorphism in Erumpents.

The smudge in the corner of the sitting room goes unnoticed. Queenie returns to the apartment and puts dinner together with none of the enthusiasm she’d had just the night before, even though the three of them are quite hungry.

She sits at the far end of the table, hoping to force her sister to sit next to Newt. Instead, Newt takes his plate over to his suitcase.

“It’s been a rather long day,” he says. “I should check on my creatures.”

Tina nods, without turning her head to look at him. She cuts her food with the side of her fork and eats as though shoveling sawdust into her mouth would give her more pleasure.

Queenie sighs and eats with her elbows on the table.

“We really don’t have space for a guest,” Tina says.

“With that suitcase of his, I’m sure Mr. Scamander can turn the linen closet into a guest room,” Queenie tells her. He is already thinking about it — or simply living in his suitcase. Apparently, he’s used to that. But Queenie knows, as terrible as her sister might be at taking care of herself, she’s not gonna let Newt live in a suitcase. She wouldn’t even think of it.

In their sitting room, the smudge moves slightly, as though it too senses the sadness drawn over the Goldstein tenement like a storm cloud.

Above Manhattan, the heavy clouds of a morning thunderstorm linger into the next day.

“Some weather we’re having,” men say to shoeshiners and bosses and wives.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” they say.

“At this time of year?”

It stays damp and dark for the full length of the day. And the city, as always, is full of coal smoke and cigarettes.

Small threads of darkness find each other and weave together amongst the clouds. Something dark floats up the length of Manhattan going north, back somewhat the way it came — over the Bronx. But then it heads out over the water of the Long Island Sound.

If you’re well-to-do in New York City, they’ll bury you in Green-Wood. It’s the Père Lachaise of Brooklyn. But most of the people in New York aren’t well-to-do, many of them aren’t much of anything at all. Many of those people end up on Hart Island.

That’s where a little shadow finally rains down, settling into the grass. There’s no stone here, and no name even though the woman was identified. Her sister brought a photo of her a few years after she was buried, and they dug her body up.

“Yes,” Mary Lou Barebone had said, looking at the putrid body. “That’s her.”

She had a ring on her rotten finger, which Mary Lou kept.

Of course, Barebone was no sister of the woman in the grave. But all she needed was a photograph and that ring.

“I promised her I would care for him,” she had told the priest in Brooklyn.

It had worked so well that Mary Lou decided that day she wouldn’t bother with so much effort the next time she found some witch’s child. Besides, the papists were nearly as bad as witches. God knows what they would have done to the boy if she’d left him there.

He had been given a name by his mother, of course, and for a short time she had loved him. At Angel Guardian Home, he had been christened and baptised with another name.

One of the first boys in an orphanage full of girls — all his life, he remembers being around women and children, such that men seemed alien to him: both fascinating and frightening, as all unknown things are.

Mary Lou Barebone gave him her name, though she never let him believe for a moment that he was truly her son.

But magic doesn’t need gravestones and genealogies. Magic is something in the blood, in the flesh, in the bones. No one can beat it out of a child. No one could bury his real mother’s bones so deep that he wouldn't find her.

The shadow curls up on the damp grass like a sleeping cat, dark as midnight.

“Do you hear something?” one gravedigger asks another.

“No,” the other says. “But it sure is some weather we’re having.”

“Isn’t it?” the gravedigger says.

“You read about Senator Shaw?” the other asks, wiping graveyard dirt from his damp face.

“Who hasn’t?” the gravedigger says. “Somebody really ought to do something. All those anarchists and troublemakers comin’ into New York.”

“Well, Shaw woulda, that’s what they killed him for,” the other says.

The shadow uncoils itself like a snake and heads up into the clouds again; refusing to hear anymore of this conversation.

It can’t learn its name from the dirt of its mother’s grave. This is not the home it searches for, aching in every fraction of its shattered self.

But the next place it goes is no home at all.

Modesty Barebone can’t remember what happened last night. She spent the day crying in the empty, falling-down house where she’d grown. She doesn’t know where her parents have gone. She doesn’t know where her brothers and sisters are. Why only her? Why did Ma Barebone only take her?

She trudges back to the church where they lived with an empty belly and her hair in knots. There are a few children sitting outside the church, looking just as hungry and dirty.

When she reaches the door, she touches it only softly but it swings open. She sees the dusty floor and the scattered, torn pamphlets. The wand she made still lays in two pieces where it was thrown.

It was just pretend. She was only playing.

“They’re dead,” she says, turning to the other hungry children. “Mother’s not coming. Chastity and—”

Her throat closes suddenly.

“Credence,” she coughs out. “They’re not here. They’re dead.”

The other children look away, but they don’t argue. Slowly, some of them get up and go away to find somewhere else to beg.

She goes inside, stepping over the wreckage and making it as far as the place where she slept. She changes out of her wet and dirty pajamas.

Then, Modesty kneels down and begins to cry. Because now she remembers — they’re all dead. She can see it now, Credence killing Ma Barebone and then Chastity after. He threw Ma from the second floor and then he — Modesty doesn’t remember what he did to Chastity, only that she was dead.

Modesty fled to the only place she knew, and Credence tried to follow.

It was a policeman, Modesty thinks, with grey hair cut in close on the sides of his face, who saved her from Credence.

That’s what she remembers, and that she hid all day from the rain that came in through the fallen down roof of the home where she used to live.

Why did he do that? Why?

Modesty fears that _she_ is the reason, and it makes her cry harder there on the church steps.

A second shadow curls up in the shade of her folded-up knees.

Modesty Barebone — that not being the name her mother gave her — has no one at all in the world and she is very hungry. This only makes her cry more and more.

Men and women in nice coats and nice shoes walk past the Barebone church, empty now of the bodies of Mary Lou and Chastity.

Now, there are no Barebones left, except for Modesty who is hardly one at all.

As if by magic, she suddenly remembers her real parents and all her real siblings. It's because of the policeman — the one with the grey hair. He reminds her: One day a policeman had come to the door and said something about sections and the law and violations. Modesty wasn’t supposed to be awake at that hour, long after her mother had put her to bed.

“Please, the children are asleep,” her father had said.

The policeman took her mother away and said he would return to take care of him in the morning.

This wasn’t what she had told Credence, of course, she said the police took her brothers and sisters to an orphanage. But Modesty doesn’t know where they are at all. She disappeared out a window that night, afraid. When she came back hungry in the daylight, the house was full of holes and broken windows. There was no one inside, and no evidence that there ever had been.

The neighbors did not recognize Modesty; they had forgotten her. Everyone had.

She came to the Barebones’ church because she was hungry, and Mary Lou saw something in her.

“Something wicked,” Ma Barebone had said.

Modesty lifts her head and wipes her eyes. Someone has dropped their billfold a few inches from her shoe. She picks it up and sees many bills and even more coins. There’s no one in the street now.

She clutches the money in both hands and thinks of the automat. Will the cashier ask where her mother is? What will she say?

Modesty gets up off the ground and pats at the wetness on the back of her skirt. In her shadow, something follows her. But no one notices it. It follows her into the bright lights of the automat, hiding in the shadow of her skirt. The cashier barely looks at Modesty, who tries to smooth her hair down with her hands.

She takes her nickels and goes, standing on tiptoes, to get all the soup and sandwiches that she can hold on one tray. It’s the most food she’s had in a long time, and rich enough to make her feel a bit sick. But she keeps eating.

That night, Modesty rests her head on the table at the automat and falls asleep.

The next day, she goes back to the Barebone church by herself. There, at least, she has a bed and clothing. There’s water to bathe with. She still has the little bit of money in the billfold.

While Modesty bathes in cold water she took in cups from the sink, a shadow opens the lockbox in which Mary Lou Barebone kept all donations to the New Salem Philanthropic Society. Modesty hears a huge crash as the lockbox is thrown to the ground. Coins spill everywhere across the wood floor of the church.

Modesty screams, just a little, and cowers in the cold, metal tub.

When she goes downstairs, finally, she’s certain she’ll find Credence ready to murder her. He’s come back to finish his work, she thinks.

Her wet, bare foot steps on a dime and it sticks to her skin.

Modesty’s mouth hangs open, her blonde hair dripping on the wood in a way that would’ve had Mary Lou screaming.

The lockbox is now in two, dented pieces on the floor. Everywhere around it is money, like an explosion.

Modesty gathers it all up and hides it under her bed.

She has enough money now that she doesn’t have to worry about eating for a few days. She could even buy candy if she wanted.

It’s been a long time since Modesty has had a piece of chocolate.

The next morning, a little bit further up the island of Manhattan, somewhere, deep below the Woolworth Building, America’s greatest living aurors question Gellert Grindelwald about the location of Percival Graves — among other things.

Grindelwald smiles and says, “I think I left him in a cupboard in my country home.”

“Your country home?” a British auror asks, his tongue cold in his mouth.

“Yes,” Grindelwald says, fluttering his blond eyelashes. The iron of his manacles blisters his skin, and President Seraphina Picquery has ensured that he can’t so much as take a sip of water without at least three top level aurors supervising.

“The one in Bavaria, it’s a family home, very remote.”

One of the other aurors sighs, and puts her hand to her brow.

An extraction team is mobilized from Scotland, in the name of intercontinental wizarding relations.

“I wouldn’t put much hope of finding anything,” the British auror tells Picquery.

Her face does not move an inch. She doesn’t even blink.

“I believe it would be in your ministry’s best interests to find Mr. Graves,” she says.

She does not say, “My country found your criminal, so yours had better find my cabinet member.”

She does not say, “A whole team of you tea-swilling, limey bastards came here, but it took a Hogwarts dropout who smuggles magical animals to find Gellert Grindelwald.”

She does not say, “I was so busy and so afraid that I didn’t even notice it wasn’t him.”

She does not even blink.

The next day, under veritaserum, Grindelwald tells his interrogators, “Actually, I think I was mistaken the day before. You won’t find Percival Graves in Bavaria after all.”

“Where will we find him, then?” an American asks.

“Have you checked the space beneath his desk?” Grindelwald says.

“Yes,” he says, turning his strange eyes toward the ceiling. “If I remember correctly, you’ll find a false floorboard there and I might have left him under that.”

He looks the American dead in the eye and smiles. “Hurry now, he might still be kicking.”

The extraction team is put on hold outside Stuttgart on their way to Bavaria. A team of six checks Graves’ office, which has, for many weeks or months, been occupied by Grindelwald. They could find _anything_ there.

Beneath the dark, heavy desk, there is a false floorboard as Grindelwald says. But the space beneath it could hardly be large enough for a man the size of Percival Graves. Still, investigators collect the notes and letters found there — as they have collected everything from Graves’ office, home and known safehouses.

They review, categorize, and analyze every pen stroke and wax seal.

The investigators who pour over these notes, which seem to be those of the true Percival Graves, summarize their findings and present these to the aurors questioning Gellert Grindelwald.

But also to those questioning Porpentina Goldstein.

She arrives each morning after taking two bites of toast and finding her appetite has abandoned her. In her smart suits, she walks into the office where she used to work to be questioned by those she had once called colleagues. There are foreign aurors here now, because of Grindelwald and Credence — the Obscurial. Because she has a relationship with most of New York’s finest, they often have someone foreign interview her.

Today, a woman with a pleasantly French accent greets her.

“And where are you from?” Tina asks. “If I’m — am I allowed to ask that?”

The woman smiles. “I’m Marie-Jeanne Abegweit, of Quebec.”

“Oh,” Tina says. “That’s not too far.”

“No,” Miss or Mrs. Abegweit says. “It is not.”

“Now, Miss Goldstein,” she says. “Can you tell me how long Mr. Percival Graves was acquainted with the Obscurial Credence Barebone.”

Tina blinks a few times with her hands folded in her lap. They took her wand away from her before they even let her speak to an investigator. She picks at the cuffs of her blouse for lack of anything else to do with her hands.

“Miss Goldstein,” she says.

“I… I first mentioned Credence — I mean, Mr. Barebone, to Mr. Graves before he left for Europe in the summer. I believe it was early in April, or maybe late in March.”

“And how did you learn of the Obscurial?” Abegweit asks.

“We were — I mean, all of us, every auror in New York City, was trying to figure out what was causing, uh, magical incidents in No-Maj areas,” she begins. “I happened to come by some of the sites in the days after the… the incidents, and there were always children there.”

She sighs.

“I was so foolish,” she admits. “I should have noticed. But the children had pamphlets for the… The New Salem Philanthropic Society, that’s Mary Lou Barebone’s organization. She inherited it from her father, who is… I believe he is a descendant of Bartholomew Barebone.”

“The Obscurial, Miss Goldstein,” Abegweit says.

“Yes, yes,” Tina says. Her chest tightens as she thinks this over. She can feel the church door under her hands again. She can hear —

“The society seemed linked, in my mind, to more than one of the incidents,” Tina says. “I filed for permission to investigate and — after, only after it was granted did I go to the church. That’s the New Salemers' church Mary Lou had set up. It was… Pardon my language, but it was shit. It could’ve fallen down in a summer squall. There wasn’t even a lock on the door.”

Tina takes a breath.

“When I went into the church, I saw a woman — Mary Lou Barebone — standing on the second floor,” Tina says. “I could hear her striking something, hitting it. Hitting —”

Tina swallows. “Someone. With something — a belt.”

She has to tell and re-tell this story almost every day. She goes in. She tries to stop Mary Lou Barebone. Credence cringes behind the woman he calls his mother. He’s folded in half from pain, with blood dripping from his hands.

Tina holds her hands up like he had held his that day.

“She was hitting the young man across the palms,” she says, the same phrase almost every day.

“That was Credence Barebone,” she says.

“And did you know at the time that he was the Obscurial?” Abegweit asks.

“I barely even knew what an Obscurial was,” Tina says, as desperate to be believed as the first time she said it. “I didn’t know one _existed_ in this day and age.”

She’s not sure if Abegweit believes her. Tina Goldstein isn’t sure if anyone believes her.

“And did you speak to Mr. Graves about the Obscurial at this time?” Abegweit asks.

“I put it in the report,” Tina says. “You’ve seen that, haven’t you? I put it all in my report to him. He is — he was my boss, after all.”

“Yes,” Abegweit says. “And did you introduce Mr. Graves to the Obscurial Credence Barebone?”

“No!” Tina says. “No! I begged him to — to do something.”

“Why was that, Miss Goldstein?” Abegweit asks.

Tina looks up at the ceiling and tries to contain the hysterical pitch of her voice. She’s a professional. But every time they ask her this: why? Every time, it gets a little harder.

“She — Mary Lou Barebone was _torturing children_ ,” Tina says.

“Did you have reason to believe any of those children were magical?” Abegweit asks.

“No,” Tina says.

“Did you see this woman hurt anyone other than the Obscurial?”

Tina wants to scream.

“No,” she says, very evenly. “No, I did not.”

She knows what she is admitting to — every statute and subsection. She doesn’t regret it. If she regrets anything, it’s that she didn’t go back to that church more often, that she didn’t whisk Credence Barebone away from that woman the way she had obviously stolen him away from some magical family.

If she could go back, she would take him away and that little girl he was so worried about too, Melody or Modesty or whatever her name was.

And the law could go hang.

Tina Goldstein thinks of her own parents — if they had caught the pox when Tina was much younger. Credence didn’t look or act much younger or older than Queenie. She clenches her jaw.

“Miss Goldstein,” the Canadian auror says. “Please describe the incident that lead to your dismissal.”

This one she can repeat with almost no emotion. After hearing Percival Graves’ voice condemn her to death, talking about how he told her to collect her things and leave the premises carries very little sting. It probably wasn’t even Percival Graves anyway.

It was still the real Seraphina Picquery that had her reassigned to the wand permit section, but even that doesn’t hurt anymore. Comparatively, so much else has happened.

Now, Tina even feels a little pride talking about how she caught Mary Lou Barebone in the act again and, that time, she couldn’t hold her peace. If that awful woman wanted a witch, Tina had thought at the time, she’d very well get one.

But there had been witnesses, including Credence himself — again.

“Someone would have had to obliviate him,” Tina says, “though, considering that he wasn’t a No-Maj, I doubt the usual memory charm worked.”

“No, I doubt it did,” Abegweit says. “Did you know it wouldn’t work?”

Tina scowls. “Of course not.”

“Did you attempt to make contact with the Obscurial after your firing?” she asks.

“Yes,” Tina admits. “But he didn’t recognize me. Or he acted like he didn’t. He wouldn’t even meet my eyes.”

She shoulda done something, she thinks. She shoulda. She shoulda.

“Did you know that Mr. Percival Graves or persons acting as Mr. Graves were in contact with the Obscurial at this point?” Abegweit asks.

“I had no reason to think that,” Tina says. “Mr. Graves didn’t even think there was a case with the New Salemers. And then he fired me!”

“When did you become aware of the nature of the Obscurial Credence Barebone?” the woman asks, her voice perfectly even. Her quill continues to scribble down notes even as Tina remains still and quiet.

“Only after Newt… After Newt Scamander —”

Down the hall from Tina Goldstein and many floors above Gellert Grindelwald, another diverse team of aurors questions Mr. Scamander before representatives from the Ministry of Magic. The president of the Magical Congress of the United States of America remains in attendance, as Mr. Scamander is a foreign witch accused of breaking international laws within her jurisdiction.

Newt Scamander addresses Madame President Seraphina Picquery and his own ministers with all the calm of a professor presenting his four hundred and twenty eighth lecture on the mating preferences of the North American Horned Serpent as compared to its European and Eurasian counterparts.

Which is to say that he isn’t nearly as intimidated by them as any present would have prefered.

“I entered this country via a Muggle — that is No-Maj steamer from London,” he says. “I presented my passport to No-Maj Customs and concealed the nature of my belongings. I had no intention of registering my presence with the Magical Congress of the United States of America, however when I was confronted by the auror Tina Goldstein —”

“Excuse me,” President Picquery interrupts.

“Yes, Madame President?” Mr. Scamander says.

“Let the record show that Tina Goldstein is not employed as an auror of the MACUSA, and has not been such since November of this year.”

“The record reflects this,” someone says.

Newt waits a beat. “May I continue?”

“You may,” Picquery says.

“When confronted by Tina Goldstein, I misrepresented the purpose of my travels as being for the illegal procurement of Appaloosa Puffskeins from Fleury’s Fancy Fauna, which was closed last year by MACUSA enforcers.”

If Mr. Scamander would only act disappointed about this, then President Picquery could derive some pride out of such a petty fact. But he speaks as if he’s a bit bored or just incredibly British.

“In fact, my intention was to travel from New York City to the state of Arizona to restore a native Thunderbird to its natural habitat,” Mr. Scamander says. “The individual possession of living or deceased Thunderbirds, of course, being illegal within the jurisdiction of the MACUSA. These laws notwithstanding, the animal had been smuggled from its native America across the Atlantic to a personal residence in Egypt, where I found it.”

This makes Madame Picquery frown.

Much of Mr. Scamander’s testimony henceforth makes the president frown. Especially when he gets to Mr. Percival Graves.

“I first suspected that Mr. Graves was not the man I believed him to be when he overlooked the Thunderbird which, without explanation, I possessed in violation of MACUSA’s statutes. However, it was his perverse interest in an Obscurus I had preserved following the death of its host, a young girl in Sudan — it was this which lead me to either of two conclusions: Either Mr. Graves, the head of MACUSA’s law enforcement body, was a sympathizer to the notions of Gellert Grindelwald; or he was Mr. Grindelwald in disguise.”

Newt holds his hands very carefully against the desk before him and looks directly at MACUSA’s president.

“I suspected that not even you Americans could put such a sadist in power intentionally,” he says, “and so I was forced to conclude that the later, however outrageous it might seem, was the more reasonable conclusion.

“After all, I had been in the company of Miss Tina Goldstein for some time by this point, and she had, at every opportunity, proved herself to be loyal to the laws of her nation, incredibly intelligent and also notably compassionate in her character. If she was an auror, then surely the man who lead America’s aurors could not be the same creature before us.”

Eventually, the officials grow tired of being lectured and let Newt go take his lunch. He goes up two flights and finds the counter where Tina Goldstein stares out a massive window while clutching a cup of coffee in both hands.

“I think I’m developing a taste for your coffee,” he says, as jovial as he can manage. It’s nice to let himself use a little inflection.

It’s also nice simply to rest his eyes on Tina’s face, but easier to talk about coffee than that.

“I —” Tina starts, then she drops her head and stares into her coffee cup.

“I guess we don’t have very good tea here,” she says. “It’s probably much better at home.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Newt says. “Everything’s better at home.”

Tina frowns, and Newt looks away, puts his hand on the counter and curses himself.

“I mean, not that I’m in a hurry to leave,” he says.

“It’s alright,” she says. “I would be if I were you.”

They look at each other and then away.

“Could I… What is there to eat here?” Newt asks.

“The sandwiches are, well, they’re edible,” Tina says.

“Could I get you a sandwich?” he asks.

“I’m not very hungry,” she says.

He looks out the window and she looks at the side of his face for a long, long moment.

“But we could split something,” she says, hesitant. “I didn’t have much at breakfast.”

“Me either,” he says.

He goes to the counter and orders coffee for himself and a sandwich to share. He remembers that Tina doesn’t eat ham. He orders roast beef, thinking about Queenie’s explanation of why she only eats chicken and fish. Apparently a Legilimens of significant power can hear even the thoughts of sentient animals.

They debated this at some length, while Tina sat on the loveseat beside Newt and read a book.

It was a pleasant enough evening, considering the day previous he'd been questioned at length about every single creature he’d brought into the country.

After a few minutes of standing at the counter with his hands in his pockets looking at the back of Tina’s head, the food is served up on a tray.

“Ah, I forgot to request extra utensils,” he says, as soon as he’s back by the window next to Tina.

“Newt,” she says. “It’s a sandwich.”

She smiles a little, a bit wobbly.

They each take a half of the sandwich and, without really meaning to, measure their bites so they never have to hold a conversation. They just spend all their time chewing. Even the mustard tastes like sawdust in Tina’s mouth, and while it’s hardly the worst thing Newt has ever eaten, he can’t say it’s at all good.

“Do you think,” she begins to say, wiping her fingers on a handkerchief.

When she doesn’t continue, Newt asks, “Do I think what?”

“Do you think it’s possible,” she says.

She clears her throat by coughing into the hankie. “Do you think it’s possible that Credence could… could have survived?”

She looks at him and he doesn’t need to be able to hear her thoughts to know what she wants him to say. Her face begs him to give her hope, to tell her it’s possible.

“Be honest with me, Newt,” she says.

He swallows. “I don’t know.”

“The Obscurus,” he says, “can’t survive without its host, the Obscurial. If the host dies, then the Obscurus dissipates.”

“Oh,” Tina says. “And… Well, you were there. That’s what we saw. Dissipation. Wasn’t it?”

Newt nods, but he tries to keep his eyes on her because she’s looking at him. She might cry and he’s not entirely sure what he’ll do if she cries, but she also simply looks tired.

“But Credence,” he says. “I’ve never seen anyone quite like Credence before.”

He thinks not of the huge wave of darkness crashing against New York City’s skyscrapers with all the fury of the sea against Gibraltar. Instead, all he can think of are Tina’s own memories played out for him to see.

“So, who can say?” he says, trying to sound hopeful. He tries for a smile, but it falters.

“I wish you wouldn’t lie to me, Newt,” she says.

Then she looks away, while he’s still struggling for the words to apologize.

“I’m sorry, Tina,” he says, at the same time she says, “I suppose it’s for the best.”

“Sorry,” she says.

“Sorry,” he echoes.

They both look out of the window, though Newt watches her reflection more than the plumes of coal smoke and flocks of pigeons that fill the sky.

In the afternoon, Newt resumes his lecture. And Tina resumes answering the same questions.

“How long did you know Mr. Barebone was an Obscurial before you contacted an agent of MACUSA?”

“Did you have any reason to believe Mr. Graves had initiated contact with Mr. Barebone?”

“Were you aware of the nature of their relationship?”

“The nature of their relationship?” Tina repeats.

No one asked her that yesterday or the day before.

“What do you mean ‘the nature of their relationship’?” she asks, her voice growing a bit shrill. “I didn’t know they had a _relationship_.”

Marie-Jeanne Abegweit folds her hands carefully against the table across from Tina.

“Did you notice any changes in Mr. Graves’ behavior before your firing?” she asks. “Perhaps something that would indicate he was romantically involved with—”

“He’s my boss!” Tina says.

“Was,” she corrects herself.

Credence, she thinks, would be around Queenie’s age if President Picquery hadn’t ordered his death. That’s not really young, not much younger than herself, but…

But…

“Are you saying that Mr. Graves and Credence — the _Obscurial_?” Tina asks. She can’t pluck the words out of her mind to finish the question.

“I’m not saying anything,” Abegweit says. “I’m asking if you had any reason to believe there was something going on.”

“No!” Tina says, loud and sharp. “Not at all!”

Deep below the Woolworth Building, Gellert Grindelwald says, “Oh, yes, of course.”

He smiles. “You did find the letters, didn’t you? And all his notes?”

There’s a sheen of sweat across his face and blond hairs stick out of the skin of his face and scalp like bristles on a boar.

“Isn’t that against the law here?” he asks. “Consorting with, what do you call them again, No-Majs? And yet, here’s your Director of Law Enforcement consorting his heart away and writing it all down in his diary.”

“And it wasn’t _you_ who wrote those letters?” an auror asks.

“Please,” Grindelwald says. “As though I would debase myself that way.”

“It wouldn’t be so far off your record,” a brit says. “Now, would it?”

“Seducing something like that?” he asks, in a voice that would probably sound falsely horrified if he had more energy. But they do not really let him sleep. His flair for drama has been flagging.

“It was barely even a human being,” he says. “I certainly never thought of it as one.”

He shrugs as best he can weighted down by chains.

“I wouldn’t have even kept it alive, except that Mr. Scamander so helpfully informed me that an Obscurus _needs_ a host.”

That night, Tina Goldstein walks back to her apartment alone. When she gets there, her sister is already serving tea to Newt Scamander.

“I agree, we’ve really got to do something for poor Jacob,” Queenie says.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Tina says as she heads to the bathroom. She wants to wash the city grime off her face, put on some cold cream, and pretend that no one asked her about the possibility that Percival Graves was romantically involved with Credence Barebone.

She changes from her work clothes into her night clothes with the flick of her wand and steps out of the bathroom in very, very soft slippers.

“I kept dinner warm for you,” Queenie says, like she doesn’t already know that _everything_ tastes like sawdust.

Still, she sits at the table and eats. Queenie is already in one of her silk nightgowns and Newt has a set of yellow striped pajamas and socks with little dancing badgers on them. There’s a hole in the toe of one sock and Tina thinks, “I could fix that.”

Queenie looks at her from the corner of her eye and Tina glares as she chews on some mushroom stroganoff that tastes like sawdust.

“I was thinking of giving him something he could use with the bank,” Newt says. “To get the money for his bakery.”

“I know, honey,” Queenie says. “But what?”

Over Tina’s shoulder, a little shadow slips through the window and joins the growing stain on the wallpaper. It’s been getting bigger by the day, growing like a mold that fidgets and writhes. It acts as though it just can’t get comfortable, if mildew could even get comfortable.

It moves the most when Tina’s home and in the main living area. But no one looks at that corner of the room. There’s no reason to.

“I’m afraid most of what I have only has value to fellow wizards,” Newt says. “Nothing I have is all that precious to muggles.”

“That’s such a funny word,” Queenie says. “Muggles.”

She giggles, but Newt only shrugs.

After she finishes the stroganoff, Tina gets up from the table and puts her plate in the sink to scrub itself. Queenie watches as Newt’s eyes track her sister’s steps. Tina waves open a cabinet and uses the teakettle to pour herself a glass of hot water, to which she adds some honey and lemon and a bit of imported firewhisky from the cupboard over the sink.

“You’ll never believe what they asked me today,” Tina says, even though she swore not to discuss the proceedings of her interrogation. Forget it, she figures, she’s already a criminal — or at least that’s how she’s being treated.

Queenie, who doesn’t need to be told, squeals and covers her mouth with both hands. Her curls bounce as she reels back in her chair.

Newt turns more toward Tina and leans across the table.

“What did they ask you?” he asks.

“They can’t really think that —” Queenie says. “Mr. Graves would never!”

“I can’t say I knew him well enough,” Tina says, waving her hot toddy through the air as she speaks. She swallows about half of it in one go and feels it burn all the way down.

“But he’s so boring,” Queenie whispers. “And _strict_.”

At that name alone, the stain on the wall moves with near violence. The wallpaper bulges slightly and there’s a light hissing sound that’s probably the pipes. No one looks into the sitting room.

“They think,” Tina says, and she stops to take another swallow. “That Director Graves was having — something, I don’t even know what, with Credence.”

Newt makes a face. “The boy.”

“I mean, he’s not — he wasn’t a boy,” Tina says. “I guess.”

She polishes off her drink and goes to pour more hot water into her glass.

“It wouldn’t be illegal,” she says. “He’s — he was Queenie’s age, I think. And Graves is an adult. He can — could make his own choices.”

“This is bothering you a great deal,” Newt says.

“Well,” Tina says, filling half her glass with whisky. “I’ve got to say it’s caught me a little off-guard.”

The patch of mildew — or perhaps a bad burn — in the sitting room is absolutely throwing a tantrum.

Tina has her drink stir itself with a small spoon, then downs the whole thing in six long swallows.

Newt watches her throat.

“Does it bother you because of Credence’s age?” Newt ventures. “Or because of your relationship with both of them?”

Tina sets down her empty glass before she throws her hands up in the air.

“I don’t even know!” she declares.

She goes back to her seat at the table, slouching forward.

“I guess,” she starts. “I guess, it’s because Credence… was my friend, or I wanted to be a friend to him. I tried. And the director is… shit, _was_ my boss. I told him about Credence, I _begged_ him. He didn’t seem to care. Thought it was just No-Maj business. Asked me all the time, ‘Are you _certain_ , Miss Goldstein?’”

She drops her voice and scowls as hard as possible in an imitation of Percival Graves.

Then Tina sighs and drops her chin into her hands on the table.

“And now they’re acting like Graves was going behind MACUSA’s back to be with Credence all that time.”

Closing her eyes, Tina puts her face down against the table and lays there — the very image of defeat.

Newt very slowly, very carefully reaches his hand toward Tina’s shoulder.

Queenie watches him, silent, before getting up as quietly as she can from the table. Tina doesn’t even notice her sister go.

When Newt finally finds the courage to put his hand on Tina’s shoulder, she startles and looks up at him.

“Where’d Queenie go?” she asks, glancing at the empty chair.

“To bed, I believe,” Newt says, keeping his hand in place.

“Oh,” she says. “Is it that late already?”

“After nine,” Newt tells her.

“Shit.”

She sits up slowly, and Newt finds himself leaning forward so that his hand stays on her shoulder. It’s very warm and the fabric of her pajamas is very, very smooth under his rather calloused palm. Likely, she wouldn’t appreciate his touch directly against her skin. But this isn’t so bad, is it?

She looks at him and for a moment Newt worries that, perhaps, she’s a legilimens as well. In which case, he has a lot to apologize for. She blinks. He blinks. His breathing, he notes, has subconsciously fallen into rhythm with the rise and fall of her chest.

“I should go to bed,” she says, her voice very quiet.

“Yes,” Newt says, just as quiet. “As should I.”

“We should go to bed,” she says.

Newt feels — he feels like a much younger man suddenly, judging from the flush prickling in his face.

Tina shakes her head suddenly. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s late.”

“Yes,” Newt agrees. “It’s late.”

When she rises from the table, his hand falls away quite naturally. She goes to bed behind a curtain of fabric, and Newt takes one last journey into his suitcase to bed.

* * *

 

Illustration by [Ikkoros](http://ikkoros.tumblr.com/post/158452264914/drew-a-scene-from-one-of-meremeduse-s-fantastic)


	2. A girl of only eight years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of discoveries and revelations, which results in happiness for creatures still capable of such things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter deals with the Sudanese Obscurial girl and her Obscurus as well as Modesty Barebone. It's "canon typical" but references to child abuse and child death are made. Children are put in dangerous situations! But, I promise, insomuch as things can be OK and work out happily, they do.

While Newt reassures all the creatures he’s brought on this strange journey with him that all is as well as it ever is, the stain in the Goldsteins’ sitting room works on its appearance. With a bit of effort, it can almost have a face. Or something that it thinks resembles its face.

With each passing day, it gets a little bigger. Of course, there are big portions of it that are still missing, separate, divided.

The shadow guarding the former site of the New Salem Philanthropic Society isn’t of insignificant size. But it also isn’t too far away from the Goldsteins’ apartment.

Something bigger, and much less altruistic, stalks the city like a rabid dog.

There are also bits and pieces, smaller, less important, still scattered around Manhattan. These scraps could be mistaken for cigarette smoke or streaks of soot. But whatever kind gesture or unkind word draws these bits to street corners and doorstops has long ago gone away. And the pieces, too, pick somewhere else to go.

It is a creature of divided loyalties and loose ends. And it is, perhaps, only a creature now, though it remembers once being a man.

And did God not make creatures separate from man?

The stain waits for Newt Scamander to climb back out of his suitcase and go to bed.

Then it steps out of the wallpaper and walks around the apartment, all smoke and tears.

It slides under the curtain and watches the Goldstein sisters sleep with complementary looks of sorrow on their faces. It looks at Newt as well, but doesn’t find him to be particularly handsome or interesting.

The suitcase, in comparison, is far more curious. When left alone in the apartment, sometimes it jumps and grunts. All manner of noises emanate from it when it’s open.

Being made of nothing but darkness and magic, the wallpaper stain has no problem slipping itself into Newt’s suitcase. It slides down the ladder like a stream cuts through a forest after a fire.

The first thing it sees is a beetle the size of a stray dog. Then it sees many, many more insects, in all sizes and colors. From every side, things bellow and screech and snore. The stain throws itself back, away from the bugs, and finds itself now surrounded by giant, horrible-looking animals with faces like the Fulton Fish Market.

The stain flees at top speed from place to place, leaving painted and enchanted canvas flapping in its wake.

If it were a man, and not just a dark stain of a thing, it would be panting and out of breath by the time it finds the single peaceful place in the whole suitcase.

There’s snow falling here somehow — by magic, obviously. And it is quiet, as it always is when snow is falling.

The stain twists itself around like a ribbon and watches the snow fall. It takes some time, many long minutes, for it to notice that there’s something else there.

Swimming through the air like an eel through water, the stain approaches the quiet thing. At first glance, it looks like itself. But the stain knows all the pieces of itself, as divided as they are. And this? This is not itself.

But it’s like looking in a mirror or catching its reflection unexpectedly in a window.

It gathers itself up into the same shape this other stain holds itself in, and finds that it’s much, much bigger than this small spot of darkness — and it knows it’s only a fraction of itself.

The other thing, the other darkness, is suspended in magic as clear as glass. It looks — it looks like a snowglobe in a department store window.

The stain has no mouth to speak, no tongue, only teeth and no jaw to rest them in.

Still, it tries to reach out.

It touches the very edges of the globe with its darkness. The darkness inside reaches back.

The sting of a switch, of wood striking and splitting open skin. Against hands that bleed. Against the backs of legs and across shoulders. The drip, drip, drip of blood on skin. Drops of tears. Salt in open wounds.

Loud words in an unknown language. English words, but this darkness doesn’t know English. 

Dark skin split by pink scars. Small, dark hands. Tears. Always crying. Longing for home, grass roof and stars and smoke from a fire. Mother’s skin warm in the cool night. Held close.

Not home. Gone. Missing. Lost. No stars. Only smoke and fire. Dreams of fire and fire and fire. Breaking glass. Skin splitting open and tasting blood. The smoke gets inside her body, in her chest, and it burns like growing back skin. Metal held in the fire until it’s bright as the sun and hurts her eyes. Pain and the smell of cooking meat.

The smoke comes out of her and everything is white, like looking into the sun.

The stain pulls itself away, recoiling from pain and heat.

But it knows pain. It knows. So it reaches back and grabs hold, an open palm held against the fire.

Bitter cold and wind that strikes his cheek like a fist, like a switch. Spare the rod and spoil the child. Rotten inside already. Standing on blistered feet when it hurts too much to lay down, visions of dirty walls swimming in his eyes.

A dead, wicked, whore witch of a mother. Hard eyes and the slice of scissors against the nape of his neck. The skin of his palms splits open then gets put back together.

Hands on his neck, on his cheeks. Choking him. Caressing him. His cheek against the soft wool of a woman’s jacket, making it wet with tears that won’t stop. Wanting it to stop.

Soft words lying to him. Sharp words: Freak, bastard, squib. Words he doesn’t understand, a foreign language.

A hand cupping the back of his head. A hand striking his face. A hand on his belt buckle, opening it and pulling it loose.

Fire and rods. A man’s face, pale and spotted as a flower. Eyes the color of the sky. A rod in his hand that does not strike her skin. Her wounds close themselves.

A woman in a dark jacket stepping through the church doors with a rod in her hand. The pain stops. Everything stops. 

The pain stops. Heart stops. Breath stops.

There is only light. There is no pain.

There is snow. There is rain.

There is the man. There is the woman.

“I’m sorry,” they say. “I’m so sorry.”

Bodies falling, grey, empty of breath. Broken and falling.

Body quiet and still. Her face. Her chest unmoving.

Everything dies. Everything falls apart. 

The stain pulls away, very slowly, unsure.

It doesn’t think it’s dead. Is it dead? Is Credence dead? Is it Credence Barebone, or is it something else? Is it the shadow left behind, like this shadow is, something made only of pain and magic?

The stain leaves that snowy place; the darkness inside its globe remains. 

The stain that once was Credence slithers back up the ladder and out of the room where Newt sleeps. It climbs back into the wallpaper, uncertain still whether it’s alive or dead. But it's no longer curious about the suitcase. It should have known better about being curious.

During the afternoon of the next day, Marie-Jeanne Abegweit takes her lunch with Mallory Hawthorne, who had been a Ministry representative for foreign affairs for a few years when Abegweit had just entered the field of cross-border magical crimes. They had expected never to cross paths again, either of them, let alone in the city of New York.

Now they share soup and a particularly unappetizing wedge salad at a counter in the Woolworth Building.

They’ve run low on material to discuss, besides how backwards and uptight American wizards seem to be about everything. Marie-Jeanne thinks of her sister and her sister’s children, skipping rocks with their magic on the surface of the lake behind the family home. Mallory drinks her cooling coffee and thinks about how much she prefers tea.

“How many bodies did MACUSA find in that New Salemer place?” Marie-Jeanne asks.

“Two,” Mallory says. “Two grown women.”

“Goldstein says the Obscurus had two sisters, including a little girl,” Marie-Jeanne says. “What became of her?”

Mallory sets down her coffee cup. 

“Oh dear.”

It takes investigators many days to compare Tina Goldstein’s testimony on the Obscurial Credence Barebone, which is unflaggingly consistent, with the testimony of Gellert Grindelwald, which is anything but consistent. By the time anyone realizes that there is a (possibly magical) girl of about eight years lost somewhere in New York City, no one is quite sure what to do about it.

“We’ll find her when her letter for Ilvermorny comes up,” says someone who does not have any children of their own. “If she has magic at all.”

But, of course, one overlooked magical child has already cost three No-Maj lives and nearly the statute of secrecy itself.

And so, two aurors and a representative of MACUSA’s Department for Child Welfare, go to the former site of the New Salem Philanthropic Society. They expect to find only clues they might use to locate a child who may go by the name Modesty Barebone. Both Tina Goldstein and Gellert Grindelwald agree that she’s blonde — probably.

When they reach the building, they find a door without a lock — a door that won’t open to even a shove from a grown man.

The three — two men and a woman — look at each other. One of them casts an unlocking charm. The door doesn’t budge.

“Why don’t we knock?” asks the woman from Child Welfare.

One of the aurors lifts his hand and knocks on the sheet-metal door.

Then they wait.

After a minute or less, the door opens slightly. It has no lock or even a knob. Behind it there’s no visible barricade, only a little girl with tangled blonde hair.

“Hello?” she says. “How may I help you?”

“We’re looking for a girl named Modesty,” the woman from Child Welfare says.

“My name is Modesty, ma’am,” the girl says. “Or at least, it was.”

“It was?” the woman asks. “And what is your name now, Miss?”

“I think I’d rather be called Lizzie,” she says. “That’s what my real mother called me. She was a witch!”

The woman stands up abruptly, going so pale she’s nearly green.

“Elizabeth Lisowski?” the woman asks.

“Yes,” the girl says, “that’s me!”

In 1923, someone reported that a witch in the Bronx named Dorothea Kemper was living with a No-Maj man named Jonathan Lisowski and that she had twelve children by him — all of them magical. This person also reported that magic was commonly used in the home, despite the presence of Lisowski and his non-magical family.

The report was investigated and found to be of standing. Dorothea Kemper was found in contempt of the law and arrested. The Lisowski children were brought to the Magical Congress of the United States of America’s New York City Department of Child Welfare.

Or rather, eleven of them were.

Elizabeth Lisowski was neither the youngest nor the oldest of her siblings. She was just old enough to open the bathroom window of the tenement where she lived with her mother and father and slip out onto the fire escape. She was just old enough to walk toward Morris Park Avenue and then to head toward the zoo, which she was very fond of at that age.

Bootleggers and gangsters and prostitutes paid her no mind, because a magical child can use just a little bit of that magic before she’s quite ready for Ilvermony — if she’s determined enough.

Eventually, on the next day, Lisowski found her way home, but there was no one inside.

She went to the laundry where her aunt and grandmother worked. She ran right up to her aunt and clutched her by the skirt.

But it was like a nightmare, her aunt looked down at her and asked, “Excuse me, little girl, are you lost?”

“Auntie Lina,” she’d said. “It’s me! Lizabeth!”

But her aunt did not recognize her, and neither did her own grandmother, who didn’t even speak English. They went to the back of the laundry and got her uncle, her cousin Adam, and then, finally, her father.

But Jonathan Lisowski didn’t recognize his own daughter. He wouldn’t have recognized Dorothea Kemper if she ran into him naked in the middle of the street.

Five years later, just before Christmas, someone finally recognizes Elizabeth Lisowski.

“Would you like to go see your mother?” the woman asks. “Your real mother?”

“The witch?” the girl asks.

“Yes,” the woman says.

“Are you a witch?” she asks, her eyes a bit wary.

The woman looks at the men to either side of her. One of them nods. The woman looks back at Elizabeth.

“Yes,” she says, “I am.”

“And my momma,” Elizabeth says, “she’s really alive?”

“Yes, she is,” the woman says.

“Let me get my things,” Elizabeth says, turning and shutting the door.

This time, when the aurors push on the sheet metal, it opens wide. They step into a wood-and-tin building just complex enough to have plumbing and windows and stairs. Elizabeth climbs those stairs and begins to put her clothes and money into a bag.

In the shadow of her dirty skirt, something coils and uncoils.

The girl skips down the stairs and runs toward the woman from Child Welfare with a skip in her step.

“Let’s go!” she says, cheery as can be. She stands a bit knock-kneed, with her toes pointed in, and scratches at her dirty scalp.

The two aurors look around, but nothing in the New Salem building seems out of the ordinary, even to trained professionals. And little Elizabeth’s shadow follows them all the way to the Woolworth Building. 

There it waits with the girl as someone gets in touch with Dorothea Kemper, who served a year for her infractions and was returned to freedom in order to care for her children. The woman from Child Welfare offers Elizabeth some chocolate in the shape of a blooming rose and she bites into it happily.

“If your momma will take long to get here, there’s a room where you could take a bath,” the woman says.

“I haven’t had a bath in a few days,” Elizabeth says, grinning. There’s chocolate melted at the corners of her mouth and between her teeth.

Dorothea Kemper apparates into the lower levels of the building and shakes the whole time they’re inspecting her wand. Once she’s been approved, she runs across the building to the lift and begs for the Department of Child Welfare.

After that, it’s a bit of a commotion. Dorothea Kemper falls to her knees in the atrium, both arms around her daughter. They recognize each other, of course; it’s only been years.

“My baby, my baby,” Dorothea weeps.

Elizabeth only weeps. She cries and she cries, all the tears she hasn’t cried in three years, in a thousand days.

The little shadow inside of Elizabeth’s shadow unfurls itself and it is not so little after all. It’s big enough to hold a sheet metal door shut against any intruder; big enough to smash open cash boxes; once it was big enough that the whole city quaked in fear.

Even Modesty Barebone had been very, very afraid of this shadow.

And it is sorry.

It never wanted her to be afraid.

It had only ever wanted to protect her. Really.

But Elizabeth Lisowski isn’t Modesty Barebone. Not really.

Really, there aren’t any Barebones left.

Just the shadow of one.

This particular shadow heads north up Broadway, toward the Goldstein sisters’ tenement, sliding through the gutter like rainwater turned black by soot. It might have liked to have a chocolate rose, too, but it doesn’t have a mouth anymore. Or rather, it has a hundred million mouths and can never be satisfied. But, for a moment, it  _is_ satisfied. Modesty can be with her brothers and sisters, now, which is what she’d wanted all the days she lived with the Barebones. 

The shadow wasn’t really her brother.

It moves as fast as the breeze and turns sharply around the Flatiron, finding the street that takes it into Chelsea and to the Goldstein sisters. 

There’s something there. The shadow doesn’t know what it is. It doesn’t sleep or dream. It might be dead, after all. But it never properly thanked Tina Goldstein — and she was a voice in the dark that said, “I will protect you.”

A part of him still believes her.

These days, Queenie Goldstein goes to bed earlier than her sister. There’s no good reasons to stay out late, seeing friends and sharing glasses of gigglewater. 

So she rises early and well rested. She fixes her flattened curls with a flick of her wand and wipes the sleep from her eyes with the back of her well-moisturized hand. Her silk robe slips onto her arms and climbs up her back with magic, but she steps into her slippers herself before she goes to the door. 

It’s Tina who gets the New York Ghost daily and on Sundays, and reads it instead of eating breakfast like she should. Queenie gets it ready for her, though, and always makes breakfast. Life’s already hard enough; no one should have to face it on an empty stomach.

Personally, Queenie doesn’t see the point in reading a bunch of depressing news that’s just gonna make her sad when she hears everyone else thinking about it.

But today the big letters on the top of the fold read: “MOTHER AND DAUGHTER REUNITED”

And that seems like a nice story, the kind Queenie likes.

So she sits down, having the coffee make itself.

“Missing tenth Kemper child found after being held by No-Maj woman”

“Oh,” Queenie says, “I remember that.”

But, of course, the Ghost rehashes the whole ordeal: Dorothea Kemper, the youngest of the Kemper daughters, illegally married a No-Maj man and started a family. When all the departments — the Obliviators and Aurors and Child Welfare folks — got there, they arrested Dorothea, obliviated her husband, and took the children to their wizarding grandparents. The oldest Kemper child was 10, just short of receiving his letter, while the youngest was only two months. Somewhere in the middle was Elizabeth Lisowski Kemper, a girl of nearly five years.

The news story has grown less uplifting by the time Queenie’s gotten through all that. She holds the paper in two hands and blinks back the tears in her eyes. She thinks of Dorothea Kemper in a prison cell; of her No-Maj husband and his empty memories.

“Little Elizabeth was taken by Mary Lou Barebone, a No-Maj, and held against her will,” Queenie reads.

A breath comes out of her, very softly. She sets the paper down and wipes her eyes again. She walks in her slippers back to her bedroom, which she still shares with her sister, and ignores the coffee boiling over in the percolator.

“Tina,” she says.

She shakes her sister’s shoulder, but Tina groans and curls tighter around her pillow.

“Tina!” Queenie says, sharply. At that, she flips the blanket back off of Tina’s feet, which quickly disappear upwards and away from the cold.

“Porpentina Goldstein!” Queenie shouts, in her best imitation of what their mother sounded like twenty years ago.

Tina sits bolt upright in bed with her wand in her hand. Her eyes are so wide there’s white all around her irises and Queenie shakes a little from the panic in her sister’s mind.

“Goody’s britches,” Tina says. “Queenie,  _what_ is the matter with you?” 

“You need to get up,” she says.

“It’s five in the morning, Queenie,” Tina says. 

“They found that missing Kemper girl,” Queenie tells her.

Tina puts her wand down and rubs her face with both hands. Her hair has a crimp in the back that stands up for two inches and there’s a few strands of it sticking to the corner of her mouth. Dark circles rest under her eyes.

“That’s great,” Tina says. “I remember that case. I was still in training, but it was a big deal. Big opening for critics of the separation laws.”

“They found the missing Kemper girl who was being held by  _that Barebone woman_ ,” Queenie says, and she really isn’t a hateful person. Her sister Tina isn’t a hateful person, either. But Tina Goldstein hates that woman and that’s good enough reason for Queenie. 

Tina’s hands fall away from her face and Queenie can hear every obscenity that her sister’s thinking, but not saying out loud.

Completely silent, Tina gets out of bed and walks barefoot to the kitchen table. She picks up the newspaper and sits down.

Queenie goes to attend to the over-boiled coffee. She makes fresh coffee — and some eggs on toast. This she settles next to Tina on the table. Tina’s hand reaches out and blindly takes the coffee. Queenie watches until she takes a bite of the toast before she fixes some for herself.

“I need to sit down,” Tina says, after a while.

“You’re sittin’ down already,” Queenie says.

Tina gets up and walks out to the sitting room to finish reading the article, which goes four pages deep into the paper. Queenie takes their breakfast plates out to the sitting room.

“This is…” Tina’s thoughts scream at her, angry and hurting. “This is  _everything_ that I said was happening. I told them… I told Graves. I _told_ him.” 

She sets the newspaper in her lap and slaps the page below a photo of a little blonde girl hugging a tall blonde woman, whose shoulders shake with tears. 

“All that shit about Bartholomew Barebone!” she says. “I’m the one who found that! It was in my reports, which Graves  _ignored_. Which Picquery didn’t even bother to look at after —” 

Tina bites down on a scream, but Queenie hears it all the same. She puts her arm around her sister and rubs the space between her shoulders. Tina holds herself tense as a spring.

“If they had just  _listened_!” she snaps. 

Tina holds herself very, very still, until she starts to shake from the force of holding herself.

“Then he wouldn’t be dead,” she thinks, “and I wouldn’t have to feel like this and that woman would have never been able to hurt any of these children for all those months that I knew and couldn’t do  _anything_ about it and he wouldn’t be dead because that son of a bitch would have never gotten his hands on him by wearing Mr. Graves’ face and he wouldn’t be dead if I’d just done more and sooner and it’s _all my fault_.” 

And it’s not anything new to Queenie, it’s a wound of grief inside her sister’s mind. Queenie has her own, she knows, and Tina knows all about those.

If things were different, if I was different, if this or that had just gone a little different. 

If mom and dad were here.

If mom and dad weren’t dead.

And the only way a wound like that can heal is if it bleeds sometimes.

So Queenie sits next to her sister on the couch and rubs her back while she cries. Her tears hit the typeset letters of the New York Ghost and turn them into little smudges of black ink. The rain-proofing charm on the paper turns them back into letters.

At that hour, Newt’s head cautiously sticks out from behind the curtain to the linen closet-cum-spare room. His curly hair sticks out in every conceivable direction and he looks rather pale. He looks at the Goldstein sisters, but only Queenie looks back at him. Her eyes lock with his and he freezes, like a little bunny rabbit.

“Is she crying?” Newt thinks. “I have no idea what to do when people are crying. And it’s  _Tina_. What if I start crying because she’s crying? Oh no, Queenie’s looking right at me.” 

She chooses to see it as sweet that Newt worries so much about Tina before he even notices Queenie. But still, she lifts her free hand and points at Newt.

“Me?” he thinks.

“You,” Queenie thinks at him, though that’s not really how it works.

Pointing at the empty space beside Tina works just as well as that anyway.

“Merlin, I can’t,” Newt thinks.

But he will or Queenie will never again get those bagels he liked from the No-Maj deli down the block. She doesn’t say that, of course, because she’s comforting Tina. But she won’t ever, if he doesn’t sit down.

Newt tries and fails to fix his hair with his hands as he steps out from behind the curtain. He’s got the same yellow-striped pajamas on and those socks with the badgers. Queenie’s certain that he packed more creatures than clothes for his trip to America.

Very quietly, Newt comes over and sits beside Tina. She’s not crying particularly hard and she’s almost totally silent. When Newt cautiously lifts his hand, Queenie takes him by the wrist and puts his hand in place of hers between Tina’s shoulders.

Tina raises her head and looks at him.

“Newt?” she asks, in a watery voice.

“Morning,” he says.

They look at each other for a moment, before Tina sniffles loudly.

“What happened?” he asks.

“Why do you care?” Tina thinks. “You don’t have to care about any of this. This isn’t your problem, it’s my problem. But you  _care_.” 

“They found a little girl,” Tina says, her voice full of phlegm. “She was Credence’s sister, only she wasn’t, she was this little girl who’d been missing for years, and…”

“You care so much,” Newt thinks. “How can any human being care so much about the people around them, no matter who they are?”

Queenie gets up and goes to make some breakfast for Newt, and leaves them to talk quietly in the sitting room about what happened to Modesty Barebone.

It’s all she hears when she goes to work, people thinking about their own children with fearful hearts. 

“How horrible,” they think, when Queenie wonders why they don’t think: How wonderful!

A lost little girl has been reunited with her parents; it’s practically a miracle.

She tries not to think about her own parents. She tries not to think about Dorothea Kemper’s No-Maj husband who doesn’t remember her. She definitely tries not to think about Dorothea Kemper sitting in some MACUSA hole for a year because she dared to love somebody enough to want a family.

On her lunch break, Queenie goes to the lady’s room and lets herself cry for a few minutes.

Then she charms the red out of her eyes and reapplies her lipstick.

“Good as new,” she says, and her voice only wavers a little.

After a very long, very dull day of fetching coffee and unjamming the self-typing typewriters, Queenie Goldstein apparates from the foyer of the Woolworth Building to the alley beside Mrs. Esposito’s building. She fixes her hair under her hat and thinks about how good it will feel to take off her shoes and stockings. 

She’s all alone in their tenement, so it’s very quiet. Most of the neighbors are still at work and it’s generally hard for her to hear someone thinking through the walls unless it’s Tina. She takes her shoes off first, then her stockings roll themselves down her legs. She has her slippers on before she even takes off her coat. Then she gets out of her jacket and blouse, her skirt, her slip, her girdle, her garters and belt. 

Queenie stands in the kitchen naked as a jaybird (in slippers), and summons her favorite silk robe from her bedroom.

She hasn’t even tied it shut when she  _hears_ something. But it’s not really something, she knows, it’s a thought. 

“Don’t notice me,” thinks someone in Queenie’s apartment. “Don’t see me. Don’t look at me. Don’t notice me.”

She ties her robe up tight and looks around the kitchen.

“Don’t notice me. Don’t look at me. Don’t see me,” someone thinks. It’s a very quiet thought, but in the tones of a young man. And there aren’t supposed to be any young men in Mrs. Esposito’s building. There definitely aren’t supposed to be any young men in Queenie’s apartment when she’s down to her robe and slippers.

“Don’t see me,” someone thinks, as Queenie peeks into the room she shares with her sister and then the room where Newt’s been sleeping.

“Don’t notice me,” he — because it’s definitely a young man — thinks.

Queen pulls back the cloth separating the kitchen from the sitting room and narrows her eyes.

“Don’t see me,” he thinks. “Don’t look at me. Don’t see me.”

It’s definitely louder in the sitting room, Queenie thinks. She holds her wand up and side-steps into the sitting room.

“Who’s there?” she asks. “I know you’re in here, whoever you are.”

“Oh no,” the intruder thinks. “She can see me.”

“You bet I can see you,” Queenie says. “And if you don’t get out here right now, I’ll jinx your toes off.”

“I don’t even have toes,” the intruder thinks. “At least, I don’t think I do.”

And that  _really_ gives Queenie the heebie-jeebies, but since Newt Scamander’s been sleeping in their spare room there’s always that chance the intruder is some kind of creature. There’s probably creatures that don’t have toes, Queenie thinks. 

“I know you heard me,” she says, clutching her wand. “Now I’m gonna count to three.”

She looks around. “One.”

Queenie’s eyes search the sitting room. Ceiling. Light fixture. Couch. Chair. Table. Stack of papers.

“Two.”

The wallpaper behind the standing lamp in their sitting room looks like someone burned it, or threw ink on it, or like...

The black thing on the wallpaper moves.

“Please don’t,” the intruder thinks. “I’m right here. I didn’t do it. I didn’t mean to.”

The black stain on the wall of Queenie’s sitting room thinks a lot in images and feelings, rather than words, but it’s not something she notices until she focuses on it. Focusing makes slimy fingers of shame crawl up her back and hot, burning anger settle in her belly. She points her wand at the stain.

“Scourgify!” she snaps, and a burst of light shoots from her wand. 

But the stain moves faster than magic, shooting up onto the ceiling in total silence. It writhes, like a living, breathing thing, squirmy as a basket of rats’ tails.

Queenie screams.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Miss Goldstein!” the stain thinks very, very loudly.

She’s afraid and the stain also is afraid, so they’re sort of stuck in this terrible loop of fear together. Queenie has to sit down and take very deep breaths to get her bearings back. She clutches her wand against her breast and glares at the ceiling.

“What are you?” she asks.

“I’m not sure,” the stain thinks. “I used to be Credence. Credence Barebone. Your sister might have mentioned me.”

“Credence?” Queenie asks the ceiling. “The Obscurial?”

“I don’t know what that means,” the stain thinks at her. “You use a lot of words here that I don’t know. He didn’t explain much to me, and I know he lied about most things.”

“Who?” Queenie asks. “Who lied to you, honey?”

“Mr. Graves,” Credence thinks, full of hissing, roiling anger.

“Oh, honey,” she says, letting her face get all soft as she looks up at the stain. “I think he lied to a lot of people.”

Credence, who is a very large, black thing sticking to Queenie’s sitting room ceiling for the time being, doesn’t think in words so much as a formless, heavy sorrow.

“Do you wanna come down from the ceiling, honey?” she says. “Can you come down?”

Keeping her head tilted up like this is gonna put a crick in her neck.

“Yes,” Credence thinks. “Of course, ma’am.”

He’s a very polite young man, Queenie thinks, aside from trying to hide in their sitting room. And, well, of course, that time he smashed Civic Center into rubble. 

The stain drips from the ceiling in curls of sooty smoke. There’s bits almost like fingers and hands, curls almost like limbs, something that could be a face. It looks rather like a cloud of smoke, curling in on itself over and over again. It does look almost exactly like the Obscurus in Newt’s suitcase, but it’s a lot bigger.

“Hello Credence,” Queenie says.

“Hello, Miss Goldstein,” Credence the Obscurial or Obscurus thinks.

“You don’t have to think of me as Miss Goldstein, honey, just Queenie is fine,” she tells him.

She feels his embarrassment, his thoughts of downcast eyes and apologies.

“Oh, Credence, honey, my sister is gonna be so happy to see you,” Queenie says, smiling. “She’s just gonna bust.”

“I would rather she remain unbusted,” Credence thinks, which is just so dry and funny it makes Queenie giggle.

“Well,” Queenie says. “Tina’s met you and you’ve met Newt, but I hardly know you. Why don’t you think about yourself, and I’ll just listen.”

Of course, it’s not that simple, but Queenie senses it would be even harder to hold a conversation with Credence Barebone if you couldn’t read his thoughts.

When Tina Goldstein gets home, well after dark and carrying Newt Scamander inside his own suitcase, she feels exhausted to the bone. She sets the suitcase on the kitchen table with a big thud and pops the latches open.

Newt climbs out of the suitcase and hops down from the table as she’s hanging up her coat and hat.

“If Queenie asks what to make for dinner, you’ll have to give her something,” Tina tells him. “I’m so tired of answering questions.”

“Oh!” Queenie says, from the sitting room.

She sticks her head out, blonde curls bouncing. “You’re home! Both of you!”

Tina and Newt look at each other and then at Queenie.

“What’s going on?” Tina asks, suspicious enough to make sure she’s got her wand in her hand before Queenie answers.

“A friend of yours showed up today,” Queenie says, with a broad smile. “He’s still here.”

“Come on,” she says, sticking her hand out and beckoning them.

She shoots a look at Newt. “I said a  _friend_ , not an evil wizard, Newt. Come _on_.” 

Tina braces herself to find Jacob Kowalski in her sitting room, but that’s not what she finds at all. Tina Goldstein looks at the dark cloud in her sitting room and watches it pull itself together into a tight ball and then shoot into the corner. It flattens against the wallpaper like a massive, seething ink stain.

“Credence?” Newt asks, uncertain.

But Tina is very certain. She puts her hand over her mouth to keep any sound from coming out. Tears prick at her eyelids like hot needles.

“Credence,” Newt says. “There’s no reason to be afraid. We’re your friends.”

“Oh, he knows that,” Queenie says. “He’s just a little shy. Aren’t you, honey?”

The Obscurus in the corner of Tina’s sitting room hisses softly.

“You should come out so Tina can get a look at you,” Queenie says.

The ink stain escapes the wallpaper like smoke from a fire, black as coal. It coils and uncoils, stretches and streams. It looks — well, horrible. But Tina feels something in her chest loosen that has been tight so long she had forgotten how it felt like this, to relax.

The Obscurus can’t quite hold a form, but in all the movement and shadow Tina can see hunched shoulders, long arms, a familiar face.

“How?” she asks. “How is this possible?”

Credence, or the Obscurus, makes a sound like crunching sand.

“Oh, she can’t understand that,” Queenie says. “Sorry, honey, I’m the only Legilimens in the room.”

There’s a bit of hissing.

“Would you mind if I explained it for you, honey?” Queenie asks Credence. The shadow of hunched shoulder shrugs, or seems to shrug.

“Just stop me if you think I’m saying something wrong,” she says, sitting down in a stuffed chair in the corner.

“I’m going —” Newt starts to say. “I’ll get a notebook.”

He takes a step over the corner of their sitting room table and nearly trips into Tina. “I want to take notes on this.”

He looks over his shoulder at Credence. “If that’s alright with you, Credence?”

“He doesn’t think he minds,” Queenie says.

“Alright,” Newt says. He nods and then he nods again, stepping out of the room.

“Credence,” Tina says, her voice a little unsteady. “It’s really you, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s part of him at least,” Queenie says.

“What?” Newt asks, his head sticking in through the curtain that divides the sitting room.

“You remember, don’t you, Newt? How big he was when he was throwing that fit down the block?” Queenie asks. “Sorry, honey, that’s just the truth. It was a real tantrum.”

Tina takes a step toward the Obscurus, even though it seems to be reacting quite strongly to her sister’s words. It doesn’t stand, of course, but it hangs in the air at about Credence’s height, plus a few stray plumes of darkness. It looks at her and she can see Credence’s face there, all made out of darkness.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, reaching out. 

Touching the Obscurus feels like plunging her hands into a snowbank. It’s cold and gritty, melting around her hand rather than giving her anything solid to hold. She brushes against what should be his cheek.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

He seems to lean his head into the curve of her hand. Her vision blurs with tears.

Newt comes back and takes up a lot of space on the couch with his knobby knees and not one, but two notebooks and quills.

“So, this isn’t all of him?” he asks.

“No, no,” Queenie says. “He says he kind of blew to pieces after, well, you were there. Anyway, he’s still coming together. He just has a lot of unfinished business to take care of. Don’t you, honey?”

“Modesty,” Tina says. “Was that… Did you do that?”

“Oh yeah,” Queenie says. “He’s been looking out for her down there at that old church where they lived. But most of him has been collecting over here, right in our sitting room. Can you believe it?”

“I really can’t,” Newt says. “This is rather extraordinary. You’re extraordinary, Credence.”

“He’s been in your suitcase,” Queenie says. “So be careful flattering him. He’ll think you want to put him in a bottle.”

“Oh!” Newt says, looking horrified. “No! No! It’s just… There’s never been an Obscurial of… I mean, you’re just not like any other wizard there’s ever been, Credence. And I, I mean, I would be honored just to… to do this, to take notes.”

There are tears running down Tina’s cheeks, and she doesn’t know what to say. People don’t just come back from the dead.

“Tina, honey,” Queenie says. “Credence wants to know why you’re crying. He thinks maybe you should sit down, you look real tired.”

“I’m alright,” she says. She sniffs and wipes her face with her cold, cold hand. “I’m just… happy.”

Queenie looks at her like she’s a bad liar and Newt looks at her with his eyebrows all twisted up. Even Credence, who is more shadow than form, looks skeptical.

“What?” she says, defensively. “I am! Oh, fine, I’ll sit.”

She sits next to Newt, her knee touching his.

“Now, when you say he’s still coming together,” Newt says. “Credence, do you have awareness of these other parts, these pieces of you? Can you see what those parts see? Hear what they hear, what you are hearing in that other place?”

Queenie answers, but Tina doesn’t really pay attention. There’s Newt’s voice, which is growing comfortingly familiar, and her sister’s pleasant chatter. Under it all, Credence makes sounds like sand falling onto sand.

It all feels very much like a strange dream, Tina thinks. She falls asleep on the couch and wakes up with her head on Newt’s shoulder.

“I was just resting my eyes,” she says, startled awake. That’s a terrible lie, because there’s a little bit of spit on the corner of her mouth. She wipes it away as subtly as she can.

Newt yawns. “It’s alright, so was I.”

“Should… Should Credence move to your suitcase?” Tina asks.

“We discussed it,” Newt says, stretching his arms.

In the darkened sitting room, Credence looks like a strange blur in the corner chair.

“He prefers to be here, in your home,” Newt explains. “He doesn’t eat much like this, though he’ll likely be hungry once we get him back into proper form — that is, looking like the wizard he is. His current form is absolutely proper for an Obscurus.”

“Oh,” Tina says, and it’s all too much to think about when she’s so tired.

“I have to go back to Woolworth tomorrow,” she says. “I should go to bed.”

“Yes, yes,” Newt says. “Of course.”

“Good night, Newt,” she says, getting up off the sofa. “Good night, Credence.”

She changes in her bedroom, in the dark, as Queenie snores softly in her own bed. The sheets have never felt so soft as she pulls them over herself. 

As an Obscurus, Credence Barebone doesn’t sleep. But now he no longer waits out the night wondering whether he’s dead or alive. He knows what he is. He knows he’s real, that he’s living, that this is all very, very real.

“Good morning, Credence,” Queenie says as she comes out in her nightgown and robe to make coffee.

“Good morning, Credence,” Newt says as he stumbles out in his badger socks.

“Good morning, Credence,” Tina says, wearing her pajamas into the sitting room.

“Well, either we eat breakfast in here,” Queenie says, “or you could come into the kitchen with us, honey.”

And they all know she’s speaking to Credence, responding to some question or thought they can’t hear.

Tina yawns and balances the New York Ghost against her knee.

“Sorry about the attire,” Tina says, “but you’ve probably seen worse if you’ve been in the sitting room all this time.”

She’s trying not to think about that as she bites into her toast. There’s a fourth plate of toast with strawberry jam on it sitting on the table in the middle of the sitting room and every once in awhile, a curl of darkness reaches out and a bit of the toast disappears.

“He has,” Queenie says. “But we had a little talk about that already.”

Tina looks up at her sister and raises her eyebrows. Queenie raises her eyebrows back at her and sips her coffee.

“I won’t ask,” she says.

It’s still dark out by the time they’re all dressed. Queenie and Newt are discussing something in secretive whispers in the kitchen while Tina laces her boots and steels her resolve to face the day.

She doesn’t wish to break the laws she spent so many years defending. But President Picquery herself ordered Credence’s death, and Tina’s not about to let her find out that order failed.

She’s going to have to lie to MACUSA.

That thought haunts her as she carries Newt’s suitcase, with Newt somewhere inside it, all the way to the Woolworth Building.

The doorman lets her in, just as always.

Newt gets out on the fourth floor and takes his suitcase with him.

“Good luck,” he says. He leans forward and Tina almost expects him to put his arm around her or kiss her cheek. She leans toward him, but he just smiles a little crookedly.

And that’s alright, she’s not disappointed. She stands up straight and gets back in the lift to go to Major Investigations.

The Canadian woman, Marie-Jeanne, stands alone in the room, with her hand resting against the table.

“Good morning, Miss Goldstein,” she says.

“Morning,” Tina says.

“If you’ll follow me,” Abegweit says, as though Tina really has a choice.

They walk past the door to the interrogation room where Tina’s been questioned for nearly two weeks now. Her shoulders feel heavy thinking about how it’s been  _weeks_. Soon it’ll be Christmas and then it’ll be New Year’s. 

Abegweit holds the door for Tina, and Tina thanks her for it.

“A few others will be joining us soon,” the woman tells her. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

Tina sits down, and before she’s even smoothed out the wrinkles in her pants, the door opens again.

Seraphina Picquery walks into the room with at least six aurors behind her.

“Miss Tina Goldstein,” Picquery says.

“Madame President,” Tina says, feeling her blood go cold. She looks at her hands.

They don’t know, do they? Could she get out of this room on her own and warn Newt, warn Queenie? They’ve got to keep Credence safe. He’s still recovering for the last time he got blown to pieces.

“No need to look so terrified, Miss Goldstein,” Picquery says.

Tina forces herself to look the president in the eye. Her tongue feels too big for her mouth and she bites herself a little when she clenches her jaw.

“Yes, ma’am,” Tina says, holding her chin up.

“You’ve given exemplary testimony these past few weeks, Miss Goldstein,” the president says. “You’ve never wavered, never refused a topic.”

Tina forces herself not to react. She thinks of her sister, of teaching her how to ignore every lewd and violent thought that flows into her mind from other people’s heads. She clears her thoughts and breathes through her nose.

“The reports you filed before your demotion have proved invaluable to investigators,” Picquery says. “I’m sure you’ve seen the papers about the Kemper girl.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tina says.

The president nods.

“And your friend, Mr. Newt Scamander,” Picquery says, “has spoken of you in the highest terms during his own testimony before myself and an international delegation.”

Tina’s mouth goes dry.

“You should thank him, Miss Goldstein,” Picquery says.

“Yes, ma’am,” Tina says. To her horror, her voice cracks in her throat as she says it.

The president folds her arms across her chest and looks at Tina the way a Ukrainian Ironbelly might look at a dormouse. Not that Tina’s ever seen either the dragon or the rodent, but Newt talks about Ironbellies rather often.

“With all of that taken into consideration,” Picquery says. “I would like to personally extend an invitation for you to rejoin the Department of Magical Law Enforcement’s investigative team”

Tina blinks. 

“Excuse me,” she says, her voice cracking again. “Ma’am?”

“You heard me, Miss Goldstein,” Picquery says. “I’m taking time out of my day to offer you your job back.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tina says. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Don’t thank me,” she says. 

Picquery turns her back on Tina and addresses the aurors, “Get her sorted out.”

Then she disappears out the door. Tina watches it close behind her.

“So, I won’t be questioned today?” she asks.

“No, Miss Goldstein,” Abegweit says, “and may I extend my congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Tina says.

She touches her face and finds she’s smiling.

One of the American aurors in the room nods at her and says, “Welcome back, Goldstein. And good job on that Barebone mess.”

“Thanks,” she says. “I’m glad to be back.”

“You were seriously wasted in the wand department,” he says.

“Any of us would be glad to say we landed a stunner on Barebone,” someone else says.

Tina feels dizzy, like a boat unmoored in a whirlpool. She thinks of the little blonde girl in the newspaper pictures, of Credence coalescing on the stuffed chair in her sitting room, of Percival Graves’ face melting away to reveal Gellert Grindelwald.

“Is there anything new on Mr. Graves?” she asks.

The aurors look at each other, then one of them shakes his head. 

“Let’s get you re-orientated,” Mendelssohn says, holding out his hand. “You can even have your old desk back.”

At the end of the day, Tina Goldstein’s an auror again. She hurries out of the office and finds Newt waiting in the open atrium of the Woolworth Building.

“Newt!” she shouts. His head whips around to look at her, and she hurries into a bit of a jog.

“Newt!” she says, loud and excited.

The president’s words have been rattling around in her head all day: You should thank him.

“Thank you!” she says, feeling like her chest could just about explode from all her gratitude.

“For what?” Newt asks, smiling at her. “You seem very happy about something.”

“I’m over the moon,” Tina says. She can’t stop smiling and it makes her so happy to see Newt smile back at her even though he doesn’t know why she’s so happy.

“Are you?” he asks. “I mean, I can tell. What is it that’s got you so, well, atmospheric?”

She laughs at his particular phrasing and he smiles until she can see his teeth. They’re very white teeth. He must take good care of them.

“I met with the president today,” she says.

“Madame Picquery?” Newt asks. “That seems like it could be quite stressful —”

“She gave me my job back!” Tina announces. She throws her hands up in the air.

Newt nods. “Yes, yes, good, of course. As she should!”

He takes a hand out of his pocket and points at Tina. “I have never met a woman more deserving of the title ‘auror.’”

Tina smiles so wide her face hurts. She probably looks like a ghoul. Newt can probably see her molars. But he smiles back, just as wide.

“Could I,” Tina starts. “I mean, this is kind of a big deal for me.”

“Well, yes, obviously,” Newt says.

“Could I hug you?” she asks, blurting it out before she can stop herself.

“Oh,” Newt says. He’s still smiling, but he looks quite surprised.

“Really?” he asks.

“Yes, please,” Tina says. “Just a hug. I’m just, I’m so happy.”

“I’d be honored to receive a hug from Auror Goldstein,” Newt says.

Tina puts her arms around him before he can even take his other hand out of his pocket. She readjusts to tuck her arm under his instead of crushing it against his ribs on one side. Her head rests just so on his collar. He smells as expected, like animals and sweat and the wool from his clothes. It’s better than any cologne she’s ever smelled.

He puts an arm around her, and then, eventually, both arms. He holds her gently, much more so than she expected. But it feels good.

Tina lets herself take one more deep breath, before she pulls away. Newt’s arms softly let go.

“I can’t wait to tell Queenie,” she says, smiling up at him.

“Well, I’m sure she’ll know the moment you walk through the door,” Newt says.

His smile goes lopsided again and Tina feels herself smirking back at him. “Don’t be facetious, Mr. Scamander.”

“I’m only being honest, Miss Goldstein,” he says. “Surely you recall that your sister is a skilled Legilimens.”

“I was aware,” she says, smiling to herself. She can kind of smell Newt on her blouse and jacket now. That’s something she’ll have to try to clear from her head before they get back to the apartment.

“Now grab your suitcase, we should get going.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mad props to my friend Emmel, who has been editing this for me.
> 
> And much gratitude for the commenters!!!
> 
> As always, find me on tumblr @ jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s
> 
> Also on tumblr, my friend Larry drew a super cool thing of Tina and Newt sneaking into the apartment that you can see here: http://ikkoros.tumblr.com/post/158452264914/drew-a-scene-from-one-of-meremeduse-s-fantastic


	3. Where is Mr. Graves?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He’s not a bad person; just a person who’s been through a lot of bad things."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes some strong language and violence, as well as the man, the mystery, the original gangsta Percival Graves having a really, really bad time.

In the dead of night, a third shift of aurors watches Gellert Grindelwald and questions him.

“Percival Graves?” he says. “Why, I think I’m the only Percival Graves any of you’ve ever met.”

The iron keeps him from transforming and powerful wards keep him from most other magic, but nothing they do to him can divine truth from lie.

“I killed the other one,” Grindelwald says. “I’m sure you might find the body if you dredged the North Atlantic for a few centuries. The trunk I used might hold up that long in cold water.”

And there’s really no way to tell whether he’s lying, whether Percival Graves is alive or dead. In a way, he must be both — alive and dead — until someone opens the box and finds the body.

And President Picquery’s aurors aren’t the only ones looking to open that box. But they can only search the places Grindelwald suggests — and any hideouts they learn of through his faithful followers. Those witches and wizards and other beings are rarely as powerful in Occlumency as their leader.

The other thing that’s looking for Percival Graves doesn’t have to ask anyone where he could be. It feels drawn to him, like a moth desperate to catch itself on a candle’s flame.

This thing stalks through Manhattan’s East Village at night. It knocks over trash cans and startles actresses standing outside stage doors with cigarettes dangling from their fingers. Their greasepaint makeup clings to their hands as they cover mouths and eyes in fright.

“It was tall as a man,” one girl tells the stagehand.

“Twice as tall!” the other insists.

Rats and cockroaches flee as it approaches, preceded by the sound of gnashing teeth.

And then, just as suddenly, it disappears.

Keeping away from the numbered streets and avenues as much as possible, it wrecks havoc in alleyways then goes. Broken bottles, empty paint cans, torn posters — it could just be the result of stray cats fighting.

“I think it’s a ghost,” one actress says. “You know, a suicide or something real tragic.”

“He seems like he’s searching for something,” her friend says.

“He?” she asks. “How do you know it’s not a girl ghost?”

Her friend struggles with a pack of matches that just won’t light, before giving up and stuffing everything down her blouse again.

“You ever know a girl who couldn’t find what she was looking for when she needed it?” she asks. “Like when you lose your earrings, either you give up or you find them in the last place you looked.”

“Well, of course, everything’s _always_ in the last place you look,” the actress says, exasperated. She swats her friend on the shoulder.

When it can’t find whatever it’s looking for, the ghost of the East Village seems to grow bigger and angrier. At night, doors blow open on their hinges. Window panes rattle in their frames. The whole cast of a Yiddish play has to evacuate their fourth-floor theater when the oil-lamp lights shatter and start a fire on stage.

The next night, the door slams wide open just as Ruth Geller gets between Andrea Worowitz’s thighs. The two women bolt apart from each other, Andrea yanking the blankets over her breasts and Ruth standing in the middle of the room with her shirt unbuttoned and her suspenders hanging loose.

Whatever blew into their room on the second floor tears down the heavy, velvet curtain over the window and sends the brass fixture crashing to the ground.

“Would you knock it off!” Ruth shouts. “I’m trying to fuck my wife here. Don’t you have anything better to do?!”

The destruction stops suddenly, and with it the sound of howling wind. Ruth closes her shirt.

“You’re scaring people, you know,” she says. “It ain’t a real nice thing you’re doing, scaring up a bunch of queers and Yids in the theater.”

She goes to shut the door, but as she takes a step, it gently closes itself. So she goes to fix the curtain instead.

Ruth never tells anyone about that, for all the obvious reasons, but afterward the ghost haunting East Village at least stops setting things on fire. Doors blow open a little more gently and the scratches on wood floors and in plaster walls could almost look like the usual wear and tear of moving furniture and set pieces.

The ghost knows what it’s looking for, but every time it gets close that _something_ isn’t there anymore. It’s not under the stage of any of the theaters on 5th and it’s not in the attic of Andy Robinowitz and George Addler’s building.

Something scratches inside the walls of all the apartments in East Village, but it’s probably just the rats.

“I hope it’s not cockroaches,” a poster painter tells his lover. “I just hate bugs.”

Then, one night, quite suddenly, a winter wind howls down 9th Street and stops right at Avenue D.

A brick and wood-and-plaster wall is the last place anyone would look for anything. It’s not really a space at all; from most angles, it’s only a wall. But the plaster’s fresh and the brick still settling in its mortar. All this time, the ghost of East Village has been going through doors and windows, crawling between walls.

In its defense, it hasn’t been a ghost for very long. And it’s possible, even highly likely, that a dark wizard of unparalleled power didn’t want anyone being able to find this place until long after the Atlantic swallowed Long Island.

A dark figure walks through the wall and into a room.

Inside that room, there is a man.

There is also a pipe that connects to the plumbing of the rest of the building and has cold, clean water that tastes like limestone. The pipe hangs from the low ceiling and wraps around the wall before descending into a spigot, just perfect to hold onto when the man in the room tries to get around on a leg that’s been broken in three places. The bones line up again, because he pushed them back into place. But they still threaten to move when he puts too much weight on that leg.

He’s walking again, at least, in slow circles around a room with no doors and no windows and no toilet. Four walls, a floor, and a ceiling. A prison cell. A coffin.

In the dark, the figure swarms, consolidating itself and then flying apart again. The shape of a man coalesces and then becomes only pieces, grasping hands and screaming mouths. It howls, less like a growing storm and more like a kicked dog.

The man, smartly, doesn’t ask, “Who’s there?”

The darkness reaches out and takes him by the throat, throwing him against the wall. Snarling teeth on skin, tearing until it tastes blood.

The end was already here for Percival Graves, coming inch by slow inch. Violence seems like a better way to go than starvation, and so he doesn’t fight the twenty hands bearing down on him.

But the roaring, howling thing with so many hands, so many teeth, stops short.

It tears away from the man, flinging drops of his blood everywhere, walls, ceiling, and floor. It claws at the plaster instead. It slams its darkness against every surface. It wails.

With one great sweeping move, it takes hold of the pipe hanging from the ceiling and snaps it in two.

Freezing water pours down into the room.

The man who was Percival Graves leans against the far wall and feels the rush of cold water over his bare toes.

“Drowning’s not so bad,” he says, the first words he’s spoken aloud in days or weeks.

At this, the darkness begins to scream. It screams and screams and screams. The room, quite rapidly, starts to flood.

Then it explodes.

Bricks crumble, plaster turns to dust, wood splinters.

At the epicenter of the magical community in New York City, a clock that is not a clock slides into the red for the second time in a month. Alarms scream and wizards, who are already overtaxed with fistfuls of major investigations and an intercontinental criminal, scramble to react.

Aurors and trained Obliviators apparate to the corner of 9th and D at just shy of 3 a.m. in weather that’s just short of freezing.

Without a wall to lean on, Percival Graves stands amid the chaos as tenderly as he can. His ears ring with the roaring scream of a darkness he can’t identify. There’s long dried blood on what’s left of his underclothes and fresh blood on his skin. He stands barefoot in three inches of water that’s still pouring out of a broken pipe. The entire side of the building he stands in has been blasted outwards, with swirls of brick dust thrown all the way across 9th Street.

There are also No-Majs on the street and, somewhere, there are already sirens blaring to call in police and fire officials.

“Director Graves?” an auror says, sounding like an uncertain first-year rather than a six-foot-tall war veteran.

Graves clears his throat. “Stevens.”

“You understand, we’re going to have to arrest you,” the auror says.

Graves, or the man who might be Percival Graves, shakes from cold and pain. No matter how he grits his teeth and clenches his fists, he can’t stop shaking. He probably won’t be able to stand for much longer without something to lean on.

“Of course,” he says. “But be quick about it.”

Thankfully, the East Village is barely a hop away from the Woolworth Building. Two aurors, one holding either side of this man in his under clothes, take him and disappear.

Then the rest go about fixing the building and wiping the scene from the minds of every No-Maj on the block. What little might be evidence amongst the rubble, they gather. But most of it’s been blown into a thousand, million pieces.

The ghost of East Village flies as fast as it can toward Broadway, screaming like the wind. It tears through the open door of the Woolworth Building at such a speed that windows rattle as it goes.

“Some weather we’re having, ain’t it?” Red says to a particularly wind-swept wand inspector.

Unusual, but fairly undetectable to No-Majs, the angry ghost sets off nearly every magical alarm in the building. It does not linger on the wondrous sights of the wizarding world, or even care much the danger it could be in.

It knows only that it found Percival Graves. It _had_ him.  And now he’s gone again.

Aurors, with their leather jackets trailing behind them like tail feathers, think the alarms are going off because of Graves. It’s easy to say that, isn’t it? After everything Grindelwald did with that same face.

Seraphina Picquery wakes with her wand clenched in her hand.

All this means little to a furious ghost whose prey has escaped.

“We’ve found Percival Graves,” echoes through the open lobby.

Or has Percival Graves found them? Is it _really_ him?

The ghost snarls its way through corridors, nearly appearing in streaks of ash and sparks of violent magic. But when it finds Percival Graves again it stops short like a starving dog chained up behind the house. It’s fear now, not fury, that stops it.

Mr. Graves’ bloody underclothes have been cut off with the touch of wands. Like an orgy beneath the swollen moon, so many people at once surround his naked body and use their magic on it.

Men and women in brilliantly white clothes, with their faces half-covered, jostle against those in leather coats. They speak in tongues. They put their hands against flesh and bones and muscle move beneath skin. They apply foul tonics against open wounds and black-green bruises. They pull something glowing and white from Mr. Graves’ head like wool on a spindle.

This is _witchcraft_ more than it is magic.

The ghost quivers with fright.

A vial of some awful tincture crashes to the ground.

“Watch out,” a mediwitch says to an auror. “Potions don’t cost nothing, you know.”

“Sorry, ma’am, I’m tryin’a do my job,” the auror says.

“Well, so am I,” she says.

The ghost goes to an unbusy corner, where it can clearly see Percival Graves’ face — badly bruised on one whole side from his hairline to the bottom of his earlobe. The ghost stays very quiet, very still. It watches. It waits.

It can be patient, can’t it? So this is patience and not fear. What is there for it to fear? It’s not at all afraid of being torn apart by so much white light. It’s not at all afraid of magic or witches or wizards. It’s not at all afraid that Percival Graves could...

It’s not afraid _at all_. It is being patient.

When Seraphina Picquery arrives in the isolation ward of her law enforcement department’s New York infirmary well before dawn, every imaginable disenchantment has already been cast over the man who really is Percival Graves.

All the same, she draws her wand and casts a quick revelio.

“I saw that,” Graves says, his voice a mere whisper.

“It’s really you,” she says.

She stands at the edge of the bed he’s tied to by an iron manacle.

“Tell me you have him,” Graves says. “Tell me you have that bastard.”

“Language, Percy,” Picquery says. “You’re speaking to your president.”

“Is that what we are to each other?” he asks.

She sits down, the hem of her nightgown peaking out from under the dress robes she quickly pulled on.

“No, not at this moment,” she says. “But we only have a moment like this.”

Graves hums in the back of his throat.

“What were you thinking, Percy?” she asks.

“When, Sera? When I was captured by a dark wizard I thought I’d left in Germany?” he asks.

“When you started a romance with Credence Barebone,” Picquery says.

Percival Graves silently looks at Seraphina Picquery, but then turns his head away.

“It’s true then,” she says.

He does not answer her.

“And did you know he was an Obscurial when you did it?” she asks, clutching the railing of his bed. “Or did you think he was a No-Maj?”

“What?” he asks, struggling to sit up despite the metal chaining him down. “He _is_ a No-Maj, Sera.”

“He is _not_ ,” she practically hisses at him. “He is the most destructive threat to America’s witches in two centuries.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks.

“Then you didn’t know,” she concludes, pulling her hands away. “I’m sorry, Percy.”

“What for?” he asks. “Don’t just tell me Cre — Barebone’s a threat and then apologize.”

“He’s dead,” she says. “I ordered it.”

He doesn’t understand, and yet he knows she’s telling him the truth. Telling him now so that he doesn’t hear it from someone else, from his own aurors: President Picquery told us to kill him, sir.

“Executed?” he asks.

She looks away. “In the field.”

Looking up at the ceiling, Percival Graves stops his struggle to sit up and face Seraphina. He rests his hands against the bed in tight fists.

“I see,” he says.

“He had become an Obscurus,” she says. “I know — it should be impossible. I’m telling you what happened. If you want to fight about it, there will be plenty of time for that in court.”

“I see,” he says.

“That’s all?” she asks.

He looks at her from the corner of his eye. “I don’t know, Sera, is that all?”

“If it was you I told to fire Tina Goldstein and not Grindelwald, you should know she has her job back,” she says.

The man who had been Director of Security for the entire nation only hums in the back of his throat and nods.

“I’ll have the others come in to begin your formal inquiry and debriefing,” she says.

Graves turns his head. “As a friend, Sera, could I have two things?”

She looks at him and lifts a hand, as though considering reaching out again.

“Yes, Percy,” she says.

“I’m sorry, too,” he says. “I should have told you about… About many things.”

“I accept your apology,” she tells him. “Even if you won’t do the same.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Now, may I have a moment alone?”

She nods, and gets up from the chair. “I can give you five minutes, is that enough?”

“It will have to be,” he says.

Outside the door, a team of aurors awaits the word from their president, who has filled in as Director of Security in the absence of her cabinet member. She closes the door and says nothing. They ask nothing of her.

In his room, Percival takes a deep breath that hurts his aching ribs. Then he lets it out in one big gust.

“Fuck,” he says, with all the spirit he can manage. Five minutes isn’t enough time to mourn, so he reminds himself to breathe. He’ll certainly have time for his grief eventually.

“Credence,” he says, very softly.

The metal cabinet in the corner of the room shudders, then, which makes Percival tense. The door opens just slightly and he expects to see Gellert Grindelwald step out of it. Or, perhaps, for inky darkness to flood the room and swallow him up.

Instead, a single glass vial rolls off a shelf and smashes on the floor.

Then, silence.

The aurors and mediwitches discuss it in professional whispers. Together they agree to allow Percival Graves the dignity of unchaining his right wrist so he can feed himself — a watery dish of boiled oats. Even that much threatens to be too much, after weeks of starvation.

He’s wandless, exhausted, and can hardly keep down oatmeal, Graves thinks, so it really is a testament to his reputation that they keep him chained to his hospital bed.

Or, perhaps, to Gellert Grindelwald’s reputation. It doesn’t bear too much consideration, but Percival has nothing to do except be questioned about Grindelwald. Oh, and Credence Barebone. The Aurors want to know the date and length of every meeting, the details of every scrap of correspondence, the subject of every conversation.

“I did not reveal magic to Mr. Barebone,” Percival says.

And he says it again. He will say it every time anyone asks.

In the halls, aurors speak to each other in whispers.

“Nearly the Occulmens that Grindelwald is.”

“Would’ve given anything to see that duel.”

In his bed, Graves feels the itch of his bones healing under his muscles and skin. He looks at the ceiling. He looks at the walls. He catalogues his scars and his wounds that will become scars.

He’d had only pain to alert him of wounds that had not healed, there in that dark place, but in the light it surprises him how raw his own skin looks.

By afternoon, Picquery’s aurors are finished with him. He tries to sleep. But there’s darkness behind his eyelids and his skin crawls with healing magic. Sleep only comes for Percival Graves after an extended fight. The Woolworth Building empties except for those unfortunate enough to work night shifts. And, of course, those even more unfortunate creatures that cannot leave.

One of those such creatures finds its opportunity has finally arrived.

In the dark, it does not have to hold itself still and invisible. It blooms into vision with curls of smoke and teeth. For a moment, white eyes flash from somewhere within.

It moves over Percival Graves without weight, a cold draft of air. But there’s enough of it to almost make a body: knees that touch the bleached sheets of the hospital bed, a spine that hunches over like a vulture’s neck, two hands it can close around the man’s throat.

It slowly presses the breath out of him. Then Graves opens his eyes.

The monster disappears. Percival takes a deep, aching breath. There’s a shadow in the corner of his room, but it’s likely a hallucination.

The metal cabinet comes crashing down with the sound of glass shattering within it. The table beside Percival’s bed goes down second with a heavy, wooden sound. Then some invisible force hoists up the chair to his left and throws it at the wall hard enough to break it. Wooden pieces hit the ground and leave a scrape in the wall’s plaster.

“Are you done?” Percival asks.

A seething, horrible darkness appears in the room, sucking up what little light comes from the hallway. Graves hears roaring in his ears.

The dark and the unknown are always frightening. This is both. It seems to grow until it fills the room, closing in on Graves.

He shuts his eyes, even tilts his chin slightly like he’s getting a shave.

But nothing happens.

Percival opens his eyes again when a mediwitch turns on the lights. The cabinet lays in a puddle of medicines and potions with pieces of the chair on top of it. So it wasn’t a hallucination after all, he thinks.

“Did you do this?” she asks, the whites of her eyes as bright and visible as her starched uniform.

Graves lifts his left hand and jangles his chain slightly.

“Do I look capable of doing this?” he asks.

They have to call in aurors, then, who ask Percival what happened.

“I was dreaming,” he tells them. “A nightmare, really.”

The official conclusion they draw and present to President Picquery in the morning is this: Percival Graves cannot control his magic anymore.

She forms her mouth into a tight line and writes her directives in bespelled ink.

Percival Graves is to be moved to a secure and heavily warded suite in the very top floors of the Woolworth Building. It’s the sort of place reserved for foreign dignitaries, guests of the president. The light fixtures are all plated in gold and a crystal chandelier floats in the main sitting room. When charmed to spin, it sings like a children’s choir with a delicate piano backing. Allegedly, an Older Sister of the Ojibwa once used the chandelier for divination when she visited.

Percival looks at the chandelier with some suspicion. He can believe it, of course, but he also thought it would be bigger.

He doesn’t try to sleep, though the rooms are sumptuous. Exhaustion works him to a fine point, but he touches the bruised skin at his wrists and waits.

Something’s coming, he thinks. It must be.

Graves falls asleep unexpectedly, kidnapped by his own dreams while sitting on a red velvet settee. He’s still in the hospital gown they gave him in place of his blood-stained underclothes. He sleeps and nothing wakes him up gasping except the nightmares. Nothing in the room is knocked about.

He feels afraid all the same. But also hungry.

The suite has a kitchen — one emptied of any silver or utensils. But there’s a basket of oranges on the counter, so Percival helps himself to one.

Could his wounds be slow to heal because of scurvy? He supposes it’s possible.

There’s a robe hung in the spacious master bath, to which Percival also helps himself.

He’s eating his third orange on the settee when two mediwitches and President Picquery arrive. With them, a freezing cold draft of air blows into the suite and sets every hair on Percival’s body standing on end.

“Good morning,” he says. “Is it morning?”

“It’s eight o’clock, sir,” one of the mediwitches says. “Did you sleep?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers.

“And have you eaten?”

He looks over her shoulder at Picquery, then back at the mediwitch. He lifts the orange peel that’s still in his hand.

“Anything other than oranges?”

The questions continue, while Seraphina stands waiting with her arms crossed over her chest. She’s wearing a dark jacket and a blouse rather than dress robes, and her hair is wrapped in dark fabric close to her scalp.

“I wanted to explain that you’re not under arrest,” she says, when the mediwitches have left. "Exactly."

“I’m simply imprisoned,” he replies. "Again."

Her mouth makes an angry, flat line on her face. He notices she’s not wearing any makeup or jewelry, though it’s late in the morning for her.

“Unless you can tell me how every bit of furniture in that room _except_ the bed you were in was damaged last night,” Seraphina says, “you’ll stay right here.”

With a sigh, she sits beside him on the settee, brushing bits of orange rind out of her way with the flick of her wrist.

“Percy,” she says.

“Sera,” he says.

“I know I shouldn’t tell you this,” she says. “If I were in your shoes, you wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“You’re right,” he says. If he were the president — a job he does not envy in the slightest — and Seraphina was his Director of Security who had been impersonated by a wildly dangerous extremist... He certainly wouldn’t put her in a prison cell this nice.

“But,” she says. “You’ve always been the one I would bring these matters to.”

Graves chews on a segment of orange and offers Seraphina one. She takes it, holding it between two fingers.

“What matters?” he asks.

“We’ve put every ward imaginable on Grindelwald,” she says. “But there’s… Alarms keep going off in the building, wards are triggered on doorways. But there’s nothing there. No one’s seen anything. I can’t believe it’s not him — or his supporters.”

“ _Lex parsimoniae_ ,” he says.

Seraphina makes an unhappy sound.

“Of course,” she says. “It could be you.”

“If I told you it wasn’t, you wouldn’t believe me,” he says. “You’re not stupid.”

“Thank you, Percy. You flatter me,” she says, dry as a mummified finger bone.

They share the rest of the orange with each other in silence.

“Who do you want for your counsel?” she asks.

“Vanagandr,” Percival says, without having to think about it.

“That old bird?” Seraphina asks.

“She went to school with my mother,” he says. “By English standards, she’s practically my aunt.”

She snorts. “Samson will be prosecuting, of course.”

“Of course,” Percival says.

“You can’t put Grindelwald on trial, can you? And you’ve already killed the Obscurial.”

He looks at her when he says it, “the Obscurial.”

She doesn’t look away from him.

“There’s only me,” he says.

“Yes, Percy,” she says. “There’s only you.”

“I understand,” he says. And she’s right, he wouldn’t do anything differently if he were in her position.

“I’ll get Vanagandr for you,” she says. “And, who is your tailor, again?”

“Nitahara?” Percy asks. “Why do I need my tailor?”

“Because all your suits are evidence in a criminal case,” she tells him. “And you can’t exactly wear a bathrobe to court.”

An empty space hangs between them, which Percival realizes too late he should have filled with something witty. Instead, Seraphina gets to her feet and nods.

“Meals will be delivered,” she says. “You understand why the silverware has been removed from the suite. But there should be a razor in the bath, if you’re desperate to kill yourself. I’d advise against it, of course. It would only make you look guilty.”

Percival puts his feet up and looks at her. It’s a strange way for her to say, “I trust you.” But that’s what it is. Also, he does need to shave. He rubs his hand against his face, where there’s many weeks of hair.

“Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome, Percy,” she says.

And she’s very, very busy, so she has to go. Of course. Of course. But then, he’s alone again with only his sense of a looming darkness for company. He does not want to be alone.

He gets up from the settee, carrying all the bits of orange peel with him. He disposes of them in a quite ordinary way. Without a wand — and who knows how long he’ll be without a wand — he simply uses the snap of his fingers and a sharp glare. The peels burn to ashes in the kitchen sink and he turns the tap to wash it all down the drain.

The claw-footed tub in the master bath has its own ornate plumbing — all plated in gold. Ordinary brass would be enough, Graves thinks. But the water is hot.

He cleans his own wounds before he gets in the water, and hangs the robe close to the edge of the tub. It feels good to soak his entire aching body. And the steam rising off the hot water will make it easier to shave his face.

Closing his eyes, Percival ducks beneath the surface of the water. When he comes up the water of the tub has turned ink black. He looks at it dripping off his hands and it stains his skin, seeping into every line on his palms.

“I’m seeing things,” he says.

It’s to be expected, after so long in isolation.

He closes his eyes tightly, and clears his mind. But that only leaves more space inside his head for the fear.

Percival clutches the sides of the tub. The water turns cold, and the porcelain tub is frigid against his wet skin. He pushes himself up and manages to keep from scrambling out, terrified, because his leg hurts too much to move quickly.

He wraps himself in the robe and goes to the sink again.

When he touches the strop of the straight razor, there is a horrible urge within him to use it on his throat. But he forces that down within him.

It isn’t useful, he thinks, as he wets the soap. The weight of the brush’s handle in his hand feels familiar and he’s done this so many times that he needn’t think at all while he swirls the brush against the soap until there’s lather.

He turns his head this way and that, watching his own face emerge in the mirror. But it is not his face as he remembers it anymore, it is not even quite the face that Gellert Grindelwald gave himself. Percival’s cheeks have grown hollow and his eyelids are heavy with blood. He can see the veins and vessels under his skin.

It’s as though, if his hands shook and he cut himself, his skin would tear like paper. And what would he find under there? Gellert Grindelwald? Something worse?

Percival cleans the razor and sets it on the edge of the sink.

When it clatters to the ground, he blames his shaking hands.

It’s grown horribly cold in the suite after his bath, but there’s nothing to do but grit his teeth and bear it. Breakfast arrives via one of the Woolworth house elves — who Graves would ordinarily tip.

Then Picquery’s aurors — his own, formerly — arrive.

Percival endures further interrogation in nothing but a robe. He rests his bare feet on the arm of the settee and reclines like a Roman emperor. It’s something protective, to pretend as though he doesn’t care.

“I met Credence Barebone after Tina Goldstein filed a request to investigate the New Salem Philanthropic Society, with which he was associated,” Percival recalls. “Her evidence was circumstantial, but compelling. Mary Lou Barebone knew something, that was certain. But No-Majs have learned much about our world over the years, despite all efforts.”

“I believed I had cast a concealment upon myself,” he explains. “I can’t imagine how I messed up something so simple, but I met Credence — Mr. Barebone — because he looked at me. I knew then the concealment had failed, so I approached him.”

One auror takes notes while another waits and watches. A third has done nothing but guard the door.

“It was within my authority, at the time, to contact No-Majs in the scope of an investigation of a serious crime,” Percival reminds them. “And, as I was not able to get much information from Cre — from Mr. Barebone on our initial meeting, I chose not to obliviate him. I told him I would contact him again, that I was a No-Maj law enforcement officer and a Christian.”

The easiest lies are always those closest to the truth. Percival used to consider himself a man who believed in laws, a man who had faith.

Percival recounts, again, his first few meetings with Credence. They spoke always of Credence’s religion and his mother. The weather was warm, then, and Percival noticed Credence’s hands on their second meeting — the bruised knuckles and scabs.

When he spoke, it was always lacking inflection. He preferred not to shake hands or meet Percival’s eyes. He had admitted that Mary Lou Barebone was not his mother by birth, but he’d called her “a very generous woman.”

“Did you ever suspect that the Obscurial had magic?” the auror asks.

“No,” Percival says. “There was no reason to think that.”

“But he saw through your concealment when you first met, sir,” the auror says. “That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“Well,” Percival says. “For an Obscurial to survive to Mr. Barebone’s age, he would have to have an incredible amount of magic. Yes, it’s possible that Mr. Barebone simply saw through the concealment. But I did not have any reason to suspect he was an Obscurial. I believed, more reasonably, that it was a shoddy concealment — and once seen, I could hardly cast another. At no time did I reveal magic to Mr. Barebone, and a man suddenly disappearing in a crowded street would be magic, wouldn’t it?”

The auror nods.

“Continue then, sir,” he says.

As Percival describes asking Credence to write down the areas where he and his siblings frequently proselytized, the lights in the room seem to dim. Percival blinks slowly and rubs at his eyes.

He tells the aurors of how he took Credence by the shoulder one day to get out of the rain, how Credence had yanked himself away. They’d stood beneath the awning of a haberdashery, which was closed at 5 o’clock on a Sunday evening. Percival had apologized, and Credence had then apologized for giving him reason to apologize.

“I said, ‘We can’t both be sorry, and I’m the one who left this morning without an umbrella,’’” he tells them.

“‘I’m not sorry for the rain,’ he’d said.”

By that time, Percival had seen Credence nearly smile more than once. He’d bought him coffee and hot dogs from street carts. Once, they’d even sat down for an automat dinner. He always paid in proper No-Maj money. Credence had smiled — or nearly so — when he spoke of his younger sister Modesty, and when Percival had taken the end of a hot dog bun to feed to the ducks swimming in the East River.

And, right then, after he’d asked Credence what he had to be sorry for.

“I don’t wish to lie to you, Mr. Graves,” Credence had said.

“Then don’t lie to me, Mr. Barebone,” he had told him.

He had put his hand on Credence’s shoulder again then, by impulse. This time, the young man hadn’t flinched away, only jerked with surprise at the suddenness. But he still smiled, almost.

“I’m sorry, because I want you to touch me,” he’d told Percival.

And Percival had repaid that honesty by saying, “That’s no reason to be sorry. I want to touch you too.”

He hadn’t really known it until he stood there with his hand on Credence’s damp shoulder and the rain coming down inches away from them. Oh, Percival knew Credence was beautiful under his scabs and stiff solemnity. He knew that he wished, as Tina Goldstein did, that he could somehow spare Credence from his painful life.

But the best way to do that, he had thought, would be to investigate Mary Lou Barebone. If she were linked to the incidents threatening to expose New York’s witches, then… Then, at least, Credence would be spared.

And this, he had told himself, maybe this was also a way to spare him from pain.

When he went to move his hand to Credence’s cheek, the young man had grabbed him firmly by his upper arm. Held him so tightly that Percival had seen the wince in the muscles around Credence’s eyes. Because he had not been able to look away from Credence’s eyes.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Percival had told him. “Please.”

“I want to,” Credence had said, and there was no way to tell if it was a statement in itself or the beginning of one.

Percival had lifted his other hand and indulged the temptation of touching Credence’s cheek. His skin was cool from the rain. Raindrops were caught in his dark hair and eyelashes. Credence had closed his eyes and pressed his cheek into Percival’s hand.

Now, in his gilded cage, Percival Graves tells the aurors who used to work for him everything. That he didn’t kiss Credence until their next meeting. That he wrote to Credence, then, and Credence wrote back. That he kept every letter.

“I don’t know if Credence —”

And he’s been so careful to call him Mr. Barebone — or the Obscurial, as Picquery and the aurors say it.

But he trips up.

The lights in the suite flicker and a bookcase gifted to the office of the president by a Japanese delegation topples. Books go flying.

The aurors all jump to their feet, wands at the ready. But there’s nothing to be seen.

“Did you do that?” his interrogator asks.

“Not consciously,” he answers, as honest as he can be.

The suite goes totally dark and Graves feels a hand upon his neck. The end of each auror’s wand glows brightly enough for Percival to see their faces. But not whatever holds him by the throat.

When he reaches up he feels nothing but bitter, bitter cold.

The lights come back up.

“We have to report this,” the aurors say.

“Please don’t go,” Percival absolutely does not say. “Don’t leave me alone with this.”

Lunch will arrive eventually, as breakfast had. And perhaps Picquery will deliver his tailor to him, as she said.

In the meantime, Percival goes over to the bookcase and hefts it up by hand. He waves the books back into place by pointing at each one and speaking sternly. He hasn’t used so much wandless magic since before he got his permit.

“The Ghosts and Spirits of the Rising Sun,” a book title says. “Translation by Watanabe Mori.”

“A ghost?” Percival wonders aloud.

There hasn’t been a ghost in New York City in decades, not a real one. But, to be an Obscurial and live as long as Credence had, he must have been quite powerful. And any witch who suffers a violent death through magic is, of course, at risk of leaving an unsettled spirit.

Then there are all the sordid details of Graves’ affair with Credence and Grindelwald’s deception and abuse.

“Credence?” he asks the empty suite.

A ghost should appear in the form of the deceased — but what if the deceased had no form?

It shouldn’t be possible, really, but as far as Percival has ever known, Obscurials don’t survive past the age of 10. They certainly don’t grow into men of over 20 in New York City, of all places. Someone would notice. Someone would know. Someone would be able to tell.

Implied therein: He should have known.

It’s what every auror is thinking. It’s likely what Seraphina thinks as well.

Graves adjusts his robe and walks to the bathroom. It’s the easiest space to clean, he thinks, with cold, marble floors and gold-plated faucets.

He takes the robe off and hangs it up.

“Credence,” he says.

Most likely, Seraphina has the whole suite under observation. So standing nude in the bathroom calling out the Obscurial’s name may be used against him in trial.

“Credence Barebone!” Percival says, with all the force he can muster.

The mirror rattles against the wall. The sink taps turn on. Then the tub. The roar of water echoes off the walls and the marble floor.

The lights flicker. Then go out.

Graves stands in the darkness with his eyes open and his arms spread wide.

Two bright lights, like a pair of eyes, appear before his face. Then disappear.

“Credence,” he says, softer. “What do you want?”

He thinks of the feeling of hands around his throat.

“To kill me?” he asks.

He’s cold all over, feeling brushed by twenty hands, hundreds of fingers. The cold sinks into his bones.

“The razor’s right there, Credence,” Percival says. He won’t tell the ghost to do it. He doesn’t really wish to die. At least, he doesn’t think he wants to die.

The lights come on, so suddenly that Percival closes his eyes against the brightness. Maybe in that moment, he sees something. Or it’s just a trick of the light. He hears the scrape of metal against porcelain. Feels something fly past his head.

Then, from behind him, a sharp crack.

He turns and the razor has been thrown with such force it’s cracked the marble tile on the walls.

“Shit,” Percival says, feeling the hairs on his arms — on every inch of his skin — stand on end.

He grabs the robe off the hanger and puts it back on, trying to insulate himself from the terrible cold. He’ll have to tell someone about the razor.

There’s not enough evidence to draw a truly solid conclusion, but Percival feels confident that whatever darkness has followed him from Grindelwald’s prison to the top floor of the Woolworth Building must be connected to Credence Barebone.

And it doesn’t want him dead?

Going back out into the open sitting area, Percival selects a book from the Japanese bookshelf. He finds the comfiest chair in the room and sits down there. Then he begins to read outloud while he waits for his lunch and, hopefully, his tailor.

Many, many floors below the penthouse of the Woolworth Building, Tina Goldstein eats lunch at her desk. She has paperwork duty while her clearances and permits are updated so she can return to the field. But she doesn’t mind. Aurors’ paperwork is far, far more interesting than wand permits.

She’s missed out on so many interesting — and a few incredibly stupid — cases while she was fired.

Around her, other aurors talk about their work.

Most of them have either had contact with Mr. Graves in person or they’re stuck reviewing all his letters, reports and personal effects. Some of the American aurors have even interrogated Grindelwald themselves.

It shouldn’t be exciting, but it kind of is.

Tina has to keep covering her mouth to hide a smile.

Mr. Graves, the aurors are saying, blew up the hole Grindelwald tried to bury him in out in the Village.

“I can’t forget it,” Stevens says, gesturing with his coffee cup. “Dust everywhere. Bricks just turned to powder.”

“You shoulda seen the hospital,” Hernandez says. “Everything smashed except the bed. I don’t know what the hell happened to Graves, or what the hell Gee did to him, but…”

She lets out a low whistle.

“He’ll get sorted,” Stevens says.

“I don’t even know if it’s him,” Hendrix says. “We were with him this morning, getting the case together for Madame Picquery and…”

Tina glances up to watch Hendrix scratch the back of his head. “I just don’t know. It was bizarre. The whole place got dark. A bookcase as tall as Stevens came down. Graves looked… He looked spooked, I’ll say that much.”

Tina frowns and looks back down at her paperwork.

She hasn’t thought about it too much, but Newt talks to Credence through Queenie most of the evening about… Well, about Obscurus things. There’s maybe half of Credence in her sitting room at home, but the other half of him is somewhere else. Queenie won’t say exactly where.

“He doesn’t want me to know,” she says. “He’s getting smarter about keeping secrets.”

Which is just exactly what Tina needs right now: a cloud of smog that’s keeping secrets from her.

She keeps her head down and does her work for the day, taking bites of a pastrami sandwich that _doesn’t_ taste like sawdust.

The other aurors talk about Mr. Graves more, of course, and Tina still listens in. She wonders if she’ll see him before the trial or not. She knows Picquery’s in a hurry to hold the trial before they extradite Grindelwald off to the Ministry. She’s fighting it, but there’s only so much she can do. Which is just too bad, because everyone knows that MACUSA’s one of the only places that still executes its criminals.

Tina doesn’t think that’s a bad thing — even after everything.

When she does get home eventually, Newt and Queenie are already in the sitting room with Credence. They’re all eating dinner and it smells delicious.

But Tina stands in front of the curtains that separate the sitting room with her arms crossed in front of her chest.

“Is everything alright?” Newt asks.

“Credence,” Tina says, in her sternest voice.

The silhouette of a young man shivers and falls apart, inching away from his dinner.

“I heard some things at work today from the other aurors,” she says. “Credence, you are not a cruel man.”

She can see him reacting, turning from something shaped sort of like a man into a writhing ball of smoke. She can also see Newt and Queenie looking at her full of concern.

“Do not interrupt me,” she tells both of them.

Sparing Newt and then Queenie a glance each, she reminds them that she _knows_ they gave Jacob Kowalski a suitcase full of silver eggshells. They weren’t even subtle about it — or quiet.

“And you, Credence,” she says. “You need to leave Mr. Graves alone. Does he even know it’s you?”

“What?!” Queenie squeals. She looks rapidly from Credence to Tina and back.

For his part, Credence makes a grinding, awful noise.

“Uhm,” Queenie says. “I know you said don’t interrupt, but… Credence says Mr. Graves _does_ know actually.”

“What?” Newt says, his face lighting up with curiosity. “How did… How is that possible?”

Tina presses her fingertips to her temples.

“Credence,” she says. “Maybe that’s the case, but Mr. Graves has a trial coming up. He could —”

The words stick in her throat. “He could be killed because he had a relationship with you, and —”

Credence explodes before she can say anything more.

Dishes go flying. The stack of The Ghost beside the couch turns to confetti. Queenie screams. Newt ducks and covers his head. The lamp in the corner hits the ground with a smash.

“Credence,” Tina says calmly. “Control yourself, please.”

Just as suddenly, Credence pulls himself into a tight, dark ball of magic.

“If you’ve been hanging around Mr. Graves, then you already know this,” she says. “You know it, Credence. Maybe it’s fair, I don’t know. But I don’t think you think it’s fair, not really.”

She looks at the swirling mass of darkness that is Credence Barebone. Or part of him, anyway.

“Besides,” she says. “Don’t you want to be… Don’t you want to be Credence again? I’d sure like to see your face again.”

She sighs and realizes she’s been holding her arms out to him.

“If half of you is here and half is hassling Mr. Graves, you’re not your whole self anywhere,” she says. “Isn’t that right, Newt.”

Newt slowly unfolds his arms and lifts his head.

“Well, yes,” he says. “Probably. I mean, in theory — Tina does have a point, Credence.”

“See?” Tina says, gesturing to Newt. “I have a point.”

Queenie clears her throat to get their attention.

“Credence says he’ll work on it,” she tells them.

And, really, that’s all Tina can expect. She can’t exactly force an Obscurus to do anything. But she just knows that Credence will do the right thing.

He’s not a bad person; just a person who’s been through a lot of bad things.

Over the next few days, Tina feels everything happen at once. Newt buys his return ticket to England — again on a No-Maj steamer. The New York Ghost leads with a story about the trial of Percival Graves. The worst thing about it is that when The Ghost questions whether Mr. Graves was secretly a supporter of Grindelwald’s, she can almost believe it. A woman from the office of Celestine Vanagandr comes to the door that morning and serves Queenie with two bespelled letters: one for Newt and one for Tina.

“You have been called to give deposition for the defense of Mister Percival Graves,” Tina reads over breakfast.

“You also may be called to testify before a court entrusted by the Magical Congress of the United States of America.”

Newt looks at his own letter and Tina tries to sit up a little straighter so she can try to read it upside down from across the table.

“Ah,” he says, finally, looking up at her. “How long do trials usually last in America?”

“They go pretty quick,” Tina says. “I mean, as long as everything’s clear and there’s no surprises.”

Newt frowns.

Tina looks at the deposition request letter, then back at Newt.

“Though, I guess, this is kind of an unusual case,” she says.

“So,” he says. “It might take a while?”

“I mean, I can’t say for sure, but it could,” she says.

The corner of his mouth twitches up. “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to exchange my ticket.”

“That’s too bad,” Tina says, smiling a little into her coffee cup. “I’m sure you miss the tea.”

“Not terribly,” Newt says.

“I’m gonna go have breakfast with Credence,” Queenie says. “You two have fun chatting!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe that I literally wrote a "it was raining and my dick was hard" scene. (explanation for that joke: https://jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s.tumblr.com/post/158298527269/monasticmaestoso-glumshoe-glumshoe)
> 
> Anyway, find me on tumblr @ jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s.tumblr.com


	4. Opening arguments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some voyeuristic-ish sexual content in this chapter, fair warning.
> 
> Also more talk about what happened to the Sudanese Obscurial girl. :(

Of course, Tina has to tell her interim supervisor about the trial summons.

“Well,” her supervisor says. “I guess you won’t be taking any shifts on guard duty.”

“I guess not,” she says, a little disappointed. 

She would like to see Mr. Graves at some point, if only to see for herself that he’s alive. Maybe, just maybe, there’d be something about the way he looked that would make it clear to her that he was innocent — or, at least, that he was still a man worth respecting. She knows she probably won’t see him until the trial starts.

“I’ll also have to take some time off,” Tina says, earning a reproachful look.

She chews on the inside of her bottom lip. “I have to actually go to, uh, the attorney’s office.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow,” she says, wringing her hands slightly. It’s not as though she can really get in trouble for this. If she doesn’t go, she could be slapped with a fine for obstruction.

The woman sighs, but writes it all down.

Right this moment, Tina thinks, Newt is probably being questioned at that lawyer’s office. She has no idea about what, honestly, Newt has never even met the real Percival Graves.

She doesn’t have to wonder about it for long.

“They wanted to know everything I knew about Obscurials,” Newt says over dinner. “It seems you’ll be a significant portion of the trial, Credence.”

Tina almost chokes on her food.

“It’s a shame you can’t testify,” Newt continues, practically cheerful. “I’m sure you’d be able to clear up all their questions.”

“Sure, and then he’d only be facing his own trial,” Tina says.

“Ah,” Newt says. “Yes, good point.”

For some reason, this conversation apparently bothers Credence far less than the idea of Mr. Graves facing capital charges. He roils and seethes, but doesn’t destroy anything. Tina supposes that Credence nearly died once already. What’s he got to be scared of now?

“So,” she says. “Any progress, you know, getting yourself back together?”

“Not today,” Queenie says. “He thinks maybe the other part of him is stuck, or it just doesn’t want to leave Mr. Graves.”

With all the security Tina knows is on the place where they’re holding Mr. Graves, she can only wonder how part of Credence ended up there in the first place.

The next day, Tina goes to work for at least half the day. Her appointment at the office of Celestine Vanagandr, Esq. isn’t until noon. She leaves a little early so she can grab a bite to eat before she apparates across the river.

She’s thinking about what Graves’ lawyer will ask her and what she might be forced to say against him in trial. If they ask about Credence, will she be able to conceal that he’s still alive in some form or another? 

Tina makes it just out of the Woolworth Building when someone touches her elbow. 

“Newt?” 

“Hello,” he says, as Tina tries to convince her heart to slow.

“Did I frighten you?” he asks, and she waves it off. She was distracted; this is what she gets for it.

“I know your meeting is at noon,” he says. “But I thought… Perhaps we could have lunch? And I could…”

Tina looks at him. His hand is still on her elbow.

“Might I go with you?” he asks. “I do know how to get there.”

“I know how to get to Brooklyn, Mr. Scamander,” she says, meaning it to be teasing.

The corner of his mouth twitches slightly downward. “Right, of course.”

“Why don’t we get lunch there?” she suggests. “There’s some really nice places across the river. It’s a shame you haven’t gotten to see more of the city while you’re here.”

They pop off to the other side of the river and then deeper into the borough. Tina takes Newt’s arm and pulls him — side-along style — to a corner just outside Prospect Park. Maybe, if Newt’s willing to wait while she has her deposition, they could go there afterward? She doesn’t suggest it.

“You’ll love this place,” Tina says. “It’s very… natural. Nature-y.”

Newt smiles, his lopsided smile that seems more genuine than any other. 

“I do prefer nature to most other things,” he says.

Eden makes for a bit of a gray-area when it comes to MACUSA’s secrecy laws. There’s no way to get in without magic. And technically, plants aren’t magical creatures. As an adult, she sees now how the restaurant walks the fine line of the law, but as a child it was simply the most beautiful place her mother ever took her.

She looks behind her to watch Newt take it all in — the flowers dripping from the ceiling, casting light over tables strewn with leaves and mosses.

“Wow,” Newt says, softly, and Tina lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Over lunch — just soup and a very, very fresh salad — Newt looks at the garden around them even more than he looks at Tina. It feels quite gratifying, actually. She looks too, all around her. It’s always a little bit different every time she visits.

Conveniently, the Vanagandr office is only a few blocks away. They actually walk, though Newt offers her his arm.

“Good afternoon,” Tina says. “I’m —”

“Miss Goldstein?” the woman at the desk asks. “Yes, you’re expected.”

Tina turns to Newt. “Well, I’ll see you?”

He shrugs, with his hands in his pockets. Tina goes through the red oak door of Vanagandr’s office, not really expecting Newt to wait for her. All the same, she hopes this won’t take long.

“Yes?” a woman with a long braid of silver hair asks. “May I help you?”

“I — I’m Tina Goldstein,” she says. “I have an appointment for noon to give a deposition.”

“Yes,” the woman says. “You’re late, and I’m Celestine Vanagandr. I hope you’ll be punctual in court.”

Tina nervously picks at the cuff of her coat.

“My first question,” Vanagandr begins. “Do you believe Percival Graves should die?”

“No!” Tina says, the answer bursting out of her.

Vanagandr locks onto Tina’s eyes. Her irises are as grey as her hair, nearly blending into the whites of her eyes.

“Good,” she says. “Now have a seat. I’m going to ask you about Credence Barebone.”

And she does — very thoroughly. But it’s nothing Tina hasn’t been asked fifty times: How do you know Credence Barebone, Obscurial? Did you speak to Mr. Graves about Mr. Barebone? Did you introduce Misters Graves and Barebone? Did you suspect at any time that Mr. Barebone was an Obscurial?

Then, Vanagandr asks, “What is your relationship with Elizabeth Kemper, also known as Elizabeth Lisowski and Modesty Barebone?”

“Oh, I didn't —” Tina starts. “I never met Modesty, except briefly. I only knew her because Credence, because Mr. Barebone spoke of her.”

“Did you have any reason to believe that the girl had magic?” Vanagandr asks.

“I don't — I don't know,” she says. “I only saw her once, and there was no reason for me to think, well, I thought perhaps Mary Lou Barebone had magic or that she knew of it, but not the children.”

Celestine Vanagandr sniffs, perhaps derisively.

“That is sufficient,” she says. “I assume you have not changed your mind about how your own criminal record came into existence.”

“No,” Tina says. 

“And you are aware that your record and previous testimony will be used in this case,” Vanagandr says.

“Well, I do now,” Tina thinks.

Instead, she says, “Of course.”

The woman, with her long braid of silver hair and grey eyes, takes the notes from a charmed quill and reviews them. Her ungloved hands betray her age, but Tina does not find this comforting. Neither a mother nor a matron, the papery-thin skin on Vanagandr’s hands looks worn from surviving.

Neither pox nor politics have defeated this woman.

“You’re still here?” Vanagandr asks.

“You haven’t dismissed me,” Tina says, unsure whether she missed something.

“I’m not a professor, Miss Goldstein,” she says. “But you are dismissed.”

Somehow, Newt is still there when Tina steps out of the office.

“That didn’t take nearly as long as I thought it would,” he says.

“Would you like to go to the park?” she asks him.

Newt smiles. Prospect Park is cold, obviously, since it’s the end of December. 

Tina tucks her scarf over her face and says, “It’s a lot prettier in the spring.”

“I think it’s quite beautiful, actually,” Newt says.

Under her scarf, she feels warm.

Across the river and deep below the Woolworth Building in lower Manhattan, an assistant from the office of Celestine Vanagandr, Esq. presents a stack of notarized forms requesting testimony from Gellert Grindelwald.

The signatures of Commissioner Minus and Chief Limus stand out. The office would probably get Seraphina Picquery herself to sign off on this, if it was necessary.

Only after the assistant leaves, does the auror sigh.

“I don’t know what those snakes think they’ll get from him,” she says. “We haven’t gotten anything at all.”

But the next day, a short list of questions arrives from the Vanagandr office. She’s even had Ministry officials sign off on it — because she’s nothing if not thorough, even aurors can agree.

Limus himself comes down to ask the questions.

“Why are you asking me about Percival Graves again?” Grindelwald asks in return. “It’s been _weeks_ since you asked me about that wretched cur. I thought you appreciated all the answers I’d given you already.”

“You know,” Grindelwald says, “the Graves family had some weight in blood where it came from. But, of course, everyone knows that the only pureblood witches who came to America in those early days did it because this used to be the only place to indulge in perversions without facing consequences from family.”

He grins. “Isn’t that how your little school was founded? Half-breeds and squibs and wandless weaklings. Rather embarrassing, isn’t it? Look at all the silly little laws you’ve had to put into place since. And Percy, of course, carrying on that grand American tradition by dallying with an abomination.”

Of course, he knows everything he says will be recorded. Chief Limus wouldn’t break protocol, even for someone as contemptible as Gellert Grindelwald.

“Have you found his body then?” he asks. “Is that why you’re asking about him again?”

Really, if he didn’t talk so much, they’d never get anything half-useable from Grindelwald. But Limus has been watching the questioning for weeks now. And Gellert’s just like any other crook: give him enough rope and he’ll hang himself.

“It’s almost like you want to put a dead man on trial,” Grindelwald says. “Asking if he _assisted_ me.”

Grindelwald blinks.

“Unless…”

He blinks again.

“No,” he says. “That’s… that’s impossible. That’s impossible! Tell me he isn’t alive! Tell me Percival Graves isn’t _alive_!”

But Chief Limus only asks the next question from the Vanagandr office.

And all of Gellert Grindelwald’s frothing, spitting anger goes on the record for the court to hear.

He shouts and curses and swears he’ll be free, he’ll tear down the MACUSA, and bury Percival Graves so far underground they won’t find him again until three generations of Grindelwald’s new order have passed.

There’s something evil living under the foundation of the Woolworth Building. 

A madman — starving, chained — who thinks that death can be brought to heel if he only wears the right pair of boots. The kind of man who thinks of love and kindness as a chink in one’s armor. With the right weapon, even powerful men and terrible creatures can be slain if he knows where to strike. 

He has a particular gift for magic, but an even more particular gift for spotting weakness.

There’s also something evil living in the top floors of the Woolworth Building. 

The aurors who guard Percival Graves think it’s him. Mr. Graves thinks it’s the ghost of Credence Barebone. 

But Credence isn’t dead. 

He knows he isn’t dead. He shattered into a hundred million pieces. Everything evil and wicked within him came out all at once: a Legion of demons cast into the lake. And there wasn’t anything left of Credence.

It’s a terrible thing to know that every awful thing he ever feared about himself is true. 

As Job remained faithful despite all afflictions, as Jacob wrestled with an angel in order to be blessed, Credence had always struggled with himself. His faithlessness and failures added to the anger that burned him to pieces and yet still burns. He is reborn as smoke and hellfire. 

The most wicked thing in the world lives in the top floors of the Woolworth Building; his name is Credence.

He pulled Percival Graves out of a wall, and he would follow him right to the gates of Hell. For many days, he has kept himself very quiet, very still, very invisible whenever anyone else is about. He does not want to die again. So he has heard it all — Mr. Graves’ version of the events which happened more to Credence Barebone than to him. 

There was another man, he said. And everyone believed him. 

Eventually, so did Credence. But this has not lessened his hatred, it does not diminish his own wickedness and evil.

Another man came and wore the face of Percival Graves so that he might take advantage of Credence Barebone, that he might lay his hands upon him and so abuse him. Without Percival Graves, this never would have occurred. 

If not for Mr. Graves, he would still be alive. (But he isn’t dead.)

If not for Mr. Graves, he would not be hellfire and bitter ashes. (It was always inside of him.)

If not for Mr. Graves, he would still be in a raw-wood and tin church with a woman who was not his mother and no idea of what it could mean to be touched in a way that didn’t hurt.

So, when there is no one about except for Mr. Graves and Credence, he makes his presence known. He turns off the lights, he breaks plates, and he ruins furniture. He yanks at Graves’ clothing. He turns every bath cold. 

He can’t keep himself away from Mr. Graves.

Even though he knows he could, perhaps, be Credence again. If he left here. If he joined the rest of himself in Tina Goldstein’s sitting room.

But he can’t.

So, he wakes Mr. Graves at three in the morning by turning all the taps on and throwing books at the walls.

Percival Graves wakes up and scowls a bit.

“Well, I’m not paying for any of this shit,” he says. “Go ahead, Credence.”

It infuriates him. He tears the quilt off of Mr. Graves in bed. He takes all of his new clothes and shoes, and dumps them on the flooded bathroom floor.

Nothing he does seems to hurt Mr. Percival Graves. He simply shrugs and rolls over, going back to sleep without the quilt. 

All Credence wants to do is make Mr. Graves feel the same pain that he feels, that seeing Mr. Graves causes him.

But when he pressed against Mr. Graves’ throat until he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t stay there. And when Mr. Graves offered him his razor, Credence threw it away rather than take it to that perfect throat.

Because the wickedest, most evil thing about Credence, worse even than his magic and his faithlessness, is how he feels for Mr. Graves.

Had he only plucked out his eyes before he laid them on Percival Graves. Had he only cut off his left hand before he used it to touch Percival Graves. Had he only bitten away his lips before he let them feel the warmth of Percival Graves.

Now he hasn’t eyes or hands or lips at all, and yet he wants Percival Graves just as wickedly as he did the first time he took his left hand to himself in abuse and thought of Mr. Graves.

Credence gathers in the open space of the bed Mr. Graves sleeps upon. Sleep is something for bodies, and he is not a body anymore. He would have thought that wanting is also a thing for bodies, but Graves sleeps nude and Credence watches the rise and fall of his broad chest with a longing ache. He wishes he had a body again, one that would fit into the curve of Mr. Graves’ body.

In his sleep, Graves tosses and turns. His brows meet heavy over his closed eyes. He groans and whispers, without saying anything. Credence has no warning when his eyes open suddenly, wide.

“Credence?” Mr. Graves says his name and he is a match struck against the rough bottom of a shoe. He sparks and burns and smokes.

When he sits up, Credence sees every rib, every vertebrae under the skin. He sees every hair, every spot, every scar. 

He sees more than he should, more than Mr. Graves would want him to. Skin that fits loosely over bone where there was more of the man only a month ago. He sees things even more intimate and obscene.

Mr. Graves sits on the edge of his bed and puts a hand on himself with an expression of pain. He groans. He hisses out filthy words. He sighs. 

“I can’t,” he says, clenching his jaw. “I can’t do this.”

He swallows and Credence watches how his throat moves.

Mr. Graves rubs a hand against his eyes, which are bloodshot and bruised, before he stands and leaves the dark bedroom. Credence follows in curls and wisps, neither willing nor able to leave him alone. 

Over the sound of running water, Mr. Graves says, “I almost wouldn’t mind if you made this bath cold.”

But Credence doesn’t. And Mr. Graves doesn’t touch himself again.

Credence watches him shave his face and comb his hair, watches him dress in one of his suits. He doesn’t react to the way that Credence yanks on his sleeves and when Credence knocks things to the floor, Mr. Graves leaves them there.

“The trial begins today,” he says. “There’s no point in going back to sleep.”

So dawn creeps up on them with the ticking of clocks. Breakfast arrives before the sun rises. Celestine Vanagandr arrives after that. The aurors who are always behind the door come into the suite and put Mr. Graves in cuffs.

Everyone leaves together, though none of them sees Credence. He doesn’t want to be seen. They all go together through the massive open space of the Woolworth Building, to the open bay of MACUSA’s highest court. There are no doors, not really, and yet Credence finds himself stopped at a line in the stone floor.

He pushes against the line and feels as though he’s pressing against a brick wall. If he presses too hard, he sees himself become visible — here, surrounded by strange witches and wizards. He recognizes the woman who ordered his death: the witch president, apparently, and a friend of Mr. Graves. This is not the place to demonstrate his power, Credence thinks, unless he wants to see if he can cheat death twice.

Tina Goldstein walks past him in her grey coat. She takes a seat to the left. Witches and wizards and other creatures with bright jackets and notebooks and cameras take seats to the right. 

Of course, each of these people has been called as a witness or filed all the appropriate paperwork in order to attend the trial of the decade: the Magical Congress of the United States of America vs. Percival Beaumains Graves.

It’s Seraphina Picquery, in black and gold, who calls the court to order — just moments after Newt Scamander walks right through Credence, shivers, and takes a seat beside Tina Goldstein.

“I present to the court, Samson Robowitz, who will present the congress’ case against Percival Graves,” she says, uninflected. “And Celestine Vanagandr, for the defense.”

On each side, Seraphina is flanked by a very large, but ordinary looking man and a much older woman with slate grey hair.

Behind them, there are even more people, also ordinary looking, who must be witches and wizards in support of the witch president.

Credence does not want to leave, but he does not really wish to stay.

This feeling, he doesn’t realize, is shared amongst almost all of the major figures in this trial. Tina Goldstein finds a stray thread inside the left cuff of her coat and picks it loose from the stitching. Newt Scamander bows his head and looks at his pants tucked into his boots.

Seraphina Picquery stares straight ahead of her, even as Percival Graves is moved off to the side so that Samson can make his case.

Charges are presented that mean nothing to Credence Barebone. He has some idea what treason is, but for all the other things — he doesn’t know what the Statute of Secrecy is, or Rappaport's Law. The grades of Graves’ alleged infractions and transgressions mean nothing to him, but there are many.

Then there’s a presentation of evidence and the two lawyers — Robowitz and Vanagandr — hand over stacks and files of paper to an auror who hands it to the man beside Picquery.

Long minutes turn into hours as Robowitz and Vanagandr argue what should be admitted to the court: The letters of Credence Barebone, the recorded testimony of Gellert Grindelwald to MACUSA aurors, the reports filed by Tina Goldstein between March and November of this year. 

Each of them then presents a list of witnesses, most of whom already sit to the left side of the court. 

They are still going through the list when a break is called for lunch. But Percival Graves, in chains, does not leave the court. Therefore, the alleged ghost of Credence Barebone does not leave the line at which he’s been stopped.

After lunch, they argue further about the people they want to call to testify.

“Elizabeth Kemper,” Celestine Vanagandr says.

“Objection!” Samson calls, as he has to every name Vanagandr has said. “A child, Madame President? The defense wishes to call a child to testify in a trial, which, quite frankly, borders on obscenity.”

“Madame President, if the prosecution is uncomfortable with a child hearing the arguments he intends to give,” Vanagandr says. “I will add Elizabeth Kemper’s deposition to written evidence.”

“I do not see why a child is any more or less able to testify in a trial about magic than anyone else,” Seraphina Picquery says. “As long as all other rules of the court are followed, I overrule the objection.”

Flash-bulbs go off from the right side of the court and the buzzing of indistinguishable voices rises.

Finally, the prosecution opens its argument. Rather like a preacher giving a sermon, Samson Robowitz paces the space of the court, ignoring the seat in the center, and recounts the every sin of Percival Graves. 

“Graves used his position of power to conceal his transgressions and empower a known criminal, Gellert Grindelwald,” Robowitz tells the court. “It was Percival Graves who used his power to initiate a relationship — a physical relationship — with the Obscurus which was used to leverage the creature into attacking the city of New York.”

And by the time he is done speaking, there is very little time for Celestine Vanagandr.

But she does not need much time. With her long braid of grey hair pinned like a bird’s nest at the back of her head, she stands at the table in the center of the court.

“Madame President,” she says. “I will present to the court evidence which shall speak for itself. Percival Graves made himself a target of a terrible evil by attempting to stand against it. This evil swept into our country seeking to destroy it, to rupture the precious secrecy which protects both those with and without magic in America.”

Vanagandr looks to her left, where Samson Robowitz stands — a foot and a half taller than her and twice as broad.

“Mr. Robowitz argues that Percival Graves revealed magic to those without it,” she says. “But the people to whom Mr. Graves is accused of revealing magic are not without magic themselves.

“There are no laws against an auror seeking to help those with magic who are abused and mistreated. It is, in fact, the core duty of an auror to ensure that all those in our magical community are protected.”

Vanagandr folds her hands against the desk and leans toward Picquery.

“And, I assure you, all evidence suggests that Mr. Graves has always been America’s greatest living auror. Thank you.”

And she steps away.

In the morning, the New York Ghost asks: “GREATEST LIVING AUROR?”

Below, a photo of Percival Graves looking haggard in his handcuffs as two aurors lead him into court.

Tina Goldstein unfolds the paper that morning and then pitches it directly into the garbage.

Vanagandr told her the night before that she’s going to be one of the first witnesses called, so when they get that far Tina can look forward to seeing her own stupid face on the front page of the Ghost.

She kind of hopes they spend a few days on the other evidence. She’d pray for it, if she still prayed. 

The trial eats up all her time, as trials usually do. But having heard the list of evidence now, Tina’s glad Newt changed his ticket. This could actually take a while.

Especially since Samson Robowitz looks set to object to everything Celestine Vanagandr says.

“It’s too bad you can’t come. I think you should hear whatever it is everyone has to say, so you’d know what happened,” Tina says to Credence. “I don’t — I mean, no one knows. I don’t know what he did to you, but it wasn’t always him. You know that, don’t you, Credence?”

He doesn’t respond, of course, and Queenie doesn’t respond for him.

She doesn’t even meet Tina’s eyes when she looks to her for some kind of reaction. Anything, really, to assure her that she’s saying the right thing.

Tina sighs. “But, at least, I’ll know you’ll be safe staying here.”

The second day of the trial begins with Vanagandr filing a motion to dismiss, citing both that no one without magic was directly affected by the actions of Percival Graves and also that the court is charging Percival Graves for the actions of Gellert Grindelwald.

This makes Samson stomp around and use his boomingest voice until President Picquery has to call for order.

“Motion dismissed,” she says. 

And the rest of the day is spent presenting and arguing about all those mountains of paper the prosecution and defense handed over.

Tina cringes when her reports are read before the court by Samson Robowitz, who uses them to say the Barebone “family” was No-Maj. Of course, he presents her own court record, which says Tina violated Rappaport's Law herself and lead to the obliviation of Mary Lou and Credence Barebone, as well as many others.

She clenches her teeth and gets through it.

Then Vanagandr presents the report on Elizabeth Kemper, also known as Elizabeth Lisowski and Modesty Barebone. She presents the Department of Child Welfare’s investigation, which Tina learns cites her by name. 

The conclusion by the department was that Mary Lou Barebone held Elizabeth Kemper, a magical child, against her will and physically abused her as well as abused others in front of her. Tina’s own words in her deposition for her own crimes are used in support of this. 

And then, before they break for lunch, both Robowitz and Vanagandr move to present the letters of Credence Barebone to Percival Graves.

The sight of them surprises Tina, who isn’t sure what she expected exactly. Maybe she thought of them as usual letters, paper within an envelope and sealed with wax. But of course Credence had none of those things. His letters are on the pamphlets of Mary Lou’s church, written along the edges and the open spaces or over the illustrations. 

Some of it is ordinary information which even Tina had collected: where the New Salemers held services and handed out their pamphlets. Robowitz gives this a sinister twist, suggesting that Graves was keeping tabs on No-Majs for Gellert Grindelwald.

“Or he was arranging meetings that would not inconvenience a young man too poor to own a pocket watch,” Vanagandr says, before she reads from her own selection of the notes. These include: Gratitude for food, for kind words, and even for bandaging Credence’s hand one day.

“Now why would Mr. Graves bandage the hand of a young man when he could have simply used magic?” Vanagandr asks. “Unless he was acting to conceal magic while assisting someone in need.”

“Objection!” Robowitz says. “This is pure speculation on the part of the defense.”

“And your arguments are not?” Vanagandr asks.

She speaks directly to the buttons of his robe, refusing to lift her chin and meet his eyes.

Then Samson presents a quite lovely piece of a letter: “Since we met, I feel as Saul must have. The scales have fallen from my eyes and I am able to see what I could not before. With new eyes, I wish only to see you.”

“What,” Robowitz asks, “could this possibly refer to, if not magic?”

“Objection,” Vanagandr says. “I believe Mr. Robowitz is merely speculating. I also wonder if he has not ever, himself, been in love.”

Someone in the press area across the court laughs.

They take a break for lunch and Tina eats at a counter beside Newt. Her food doesn’t taste quite like sawdust, but it’s a close thing.

“Credence is — was quite the poet,” he says.

“I can hardly believe it,” Tina says, but it makes her ache somewhere between her ribs.

He’s not dead, she thinks. She doesn’t need to grieve him. But it’s hard not to think of the injustice of it all. And, if Tina Goldstein could just live with injustice, she wouldn’t have become an auror in the first place.

The rest of the day is devoted to Credence’s letters, of which there are an astonishing number. All of those presented in court, Tina knows, came from the secret space under Mr. Graves’ desk. She’s overheard that Graves wrote back, but who knows what became of those letters. She could ask Credence, perhaps, but she wouldn’t want to hurt him.

The next day’s Ghost is even worse: “A DARK LOVE AFFAIR.”

They use a photo of Graves alongside a photo of the Obscurus plowing through the corner of building. The photo roils and writhes with menace, even in newsprint.

She dumps it right in the garbage.

“Hey!” Queenie says. “The weekly insert from the Charmer is in there!”

She floats the Ghost out of the bin, then takes one look at the front page and lets it drop.

“Never mind,” she says, before going to wash her hands.

Instead of reading the paper, Tina asks Queenie about the wand office gossip she’s missing out on. Queenie is happy to talk, perhaps because no one else in the Goldstein apartment is.

Tina and Newt go together to the court, and sit beside each other. Tina watches the center of the court, while Newt watches his shoes. But he listens. Tina strongly suspects that there’s some sort of creature in his jacket, or maybe up his pants leg. But she keeps her eyes on the proceedings even when it’s only Robowitz pacing and Vanagandr standing around, making sweeping gestures with her hands.

Today, they present the findings of aurors interrogating Gellert Grindelwald. The press side of the court goes crazy with flash-bulbs and so many auto-quills scribbling at once that Tina can hear it all the way over where she is.

She tries to focus on the proceedings. Though the truth here may be difficult to discern as… As an Obscurus on a cloudy night.

Robowitz makes a strong argument that none of Grindelwald’s words deserve to be heard, as nothing he says can be trusted. 

But what Grindelwald says, or what he’s told aurors, seems to be rather straightforward: He sought revenge on Percival Graves and exploited the pre-existing relationship between Graves and Credence Barebone. Graves, like Tina herself, was investigating a possible link between the Barebone church and its children and the MACUSA’s dangerous and then severe unexplained magical activity problems in New York City. Grindelwald posed as Graves in order to find the source of the activity and use it for himself.

Oh, and he freely admits to firing Tina Goldstein and then trying to execute her.

It’s comforting, she supposes, to have that confirmed.

But can it really be confirmed? If Grindelwald is a liar and a criminal.

At the end of the day, Tina has a terrible headache. Newt looks awfully pale. Queenie opens the apartment door with hot cocoa already made.

On the fourth day of the trial, Tina doesn’t even unfold the Ghost before putting it right in the trash. The introduction of evidence formally concludes, and Tina finds herself called before the court.

Flash-bulbs go off as she gets up and walks to the center of the court. There’s a lot more press and a lot more people, but this isn’t anything new for Tina. She’s testified many times throughout her years as an auror.

Well, and she faced Seraphina Picquery herself to defend against the charge that she used magic in front of and then against Mary Lou Barebone. Tina didn’t do a very good job defending herself that time.

It’s definitely going to come up.

“Miss Porpentina Goldstein,” Celestine Vanagandr says. “Please tell the court how you know Credence Barebone.”

And she does. It’s nothing new. Even when Samson Robowitz cross-examines her. There’s simply nothing new for Tina to say. How many ways can she say the same things? She has been asked this so many times, and it doesn’t hurt nearly as much when she knows that Credence is back home in her sitting room.

She filled out all her forms and her reports. She had permission to speak to Credence Barebone as part of her investigation of the New Salem Philanthropic Society. She didn’t know he was an Obscurial. She didn’t fully understand what an Obscurus was until Newt Scamander told her. She didn’t know that Modesty Barebone was Elizabeth Kemper. She researched and concluded that Mary Lou Barebone was the descendant of Bartholomew Barebone. 

“They don’t teach much about Obscurials at Ilvermorny,” Tina Goldstein tells the court. “But I was the top of my class in history.”

When the topic turns to Graves, she remains professional.

“Mr. Graves was my superior,” she says. “We were not friends. I did not speak to him regularly enough to know what he did in his personal life.”

“But you did speak to Credence Barebone?” Robowitz asks her. “And he didn’t say anything to you about his relationship with Mr. Graves?”

“I never asked,” Tina says. “And I wasn’t friends with Mr. Barebone either. He was a potential witness in an investigation. I checked on him, occasionally. The most we spoke was — was after I used magic in front of him.”

“And after that?” Robowitz presses.

“Mr. Barebone was obliviated,” Tina says. “I had every reason to believe that he no longer knew who I was.”

“And that was it?” Robowitz asks. “You never saw Mr. Barebone again?”

“I did not interact with Mr. Barebone again until it became clear that he was the Obscurial,” Tina says. “Mr. Scamander recognized him, from seeing my memories of my interactions with Mr. Barebone — after those memories were nearly used to execute me. I last saw Mr. Barebone in one piece under Civic Center station. It was very clear by then that he was the source of the Obscurus.”

“You said that you didn’t know what an Obscurus was, Miss Goldstein,” Robowitz says.

“This was after I had been informed by Mr. Scamander of many creatures I didn’t know about before,” she says. “You maybe remember that some of those creatures helped MACUSA obliviate over five million No-Majs living in New York City. It was in the paper.”

It’s really more than she ought to say, but it’s fairly satisfying to say it all the same.

Tina admits to her crimes again and again: She used magic to keep a woman descended from a family known to have come from fugitive Scourers from continuing to abuse a young man whose magic was feeding something dark and powerful. 

It was illegal. But was it really wrong?

The next day’s New York Ghost calls her a hero, but Tina dumps it in the garbage without even looking at the headline or the picture of her sitting before the court.

The aurors who found Mr. Graves take the stand next. Then the woman who identified Elizabeth Kemper. Then there’s twenty aurors in a row who interrogated Gellert Grindelwald. There’s a French witch who barely survived one of the clashes between Grindelwald and Graves in the Black Forest. She cast a charm on herself to petrify her heart so she wouldn’t bleed to death, she explains through a translator.

Over a week into the trial of Percival Graves, the defense calls Newt Scamander to the stand.

“Please state your name for the court,” Celestine Vanagandr says.

“Newton Artemis Fido Scamander,” he says, looking to his left. Tina can’t help but wonder if he’s looking for her in the crowd. But it’s so hard to see anything from the center of court, she knows. All the lights are on you, not on the people around you.

“Most call me Newt,” he says. 

“And what is your occupation, Mr. Scamander?”

“Currently, I am writing a book on the world’s known magical creatures,” he says.

“And you brought some of those creatures with you to New York City?” 

“Yes,” he admits. “I did.”

“Could you tell the court about some of the creatures that you brought into MACUSA’s jurisdiction? Particularly where you acquired these creatures and what you would like the court to know about them?”

From the side, Samson Robowitz sighs loudly.

“Objection,” he says, huffing. “This is going to take forever and _what_ does it have to do with a treason trial?”

Seraphina Picquery moves her eyes toward Celestine Vanagandr.

“What _does_ this have to do with the case at hand?” she asks.

“I'm establishing the expertise of my witness, madame president,” Vanagandr says.

“The witness shall limit himself to three of the creatures,” Picquery orders. “Choose wisely, Mr. Scamander, and do not waste the court’s time.”

He glances up at her, then looks down at the desks and swallows.

“Mr. Scamander,” Vanagandr says. “Please.”

Newt clears his throat and keeps his head down. 

“Well there’s Dougal — Dougal is a Demiguise,” he begins. “As a rule, I name all of the creatures that I take in. It’s a matter of respect. Most magical creatures are a spot smarter than non-magical creatures, and even most non-magical creatures seem to understand when you name them.”

Before Newt can sidetrack himself too far, he comes back to the point, “I located Dougal in the jungle somewhere in Laos — that’s French Laos in the Southeast of Asia. As you may already know, Demiguise pelts are highly valued as the creature’s hair may be spun into Invisibility Cloaks. It was either for this, or perhaps by simple misfortune — though that seems unlikely, as the Demiguise has very mild divination abilities...”

He frowns. “What I mean to say is that Dougal was injured when I found him, and the proper thing was to rehabilitate him. That was done while I was travelling back to Hong Kong after my time in the Indian regions. I made arrangements with my associates — my wizarding associates — in Hong Kong to have Dougal returned to Laos, but he did not wish to leave. The Demiguise truly is a very gentle creature, as intelligent and capable as an ape or chimp, but even more peaceful. You can trust a Demiguise around a small child or animal in a way that no sane wizard would ever trust a chimp.”

Newt nods to himself, satisfied with that answer.

“So that’s Dougal,” he says. “If I had to pick a favorite, though that would be quite unfair of me, I might say it was one of my bowtruckles — Pickett.”

He smiles. 

“I’ve had the colony of bowtruckles that is in my possession for many years now,” Newt explains. “They were displaced by a fire in Scotland. A friend of mine — well, someone that I knew, she directed me to the area, because it was well known for wand-sourcing. The best trees for wands often attract magical creatures. Pickett is of the second generation of this bowtruckle colony, but I’ve taken all of them on my travels.

“Honestly, I’ve no idea how I might have overcome being arrested here in America without Pickett. I don’t wish to advertise this to the unscrupulous in your country, but in Britain, it’s well known among witches and wizards that bowtruckles can pick any lock. Thus, the name Pickett.

“Overall, bowtruckles are very peaceable and intensely shy, most especially Pickett. But I have never worried about carrying him with me, as a bowtruckle is perfectly willing and able to gouge a man’s eyes out if the tree — or coat pocket — in which it lives is threatened.”

He smiles and thinks, if anything, this adventure has made Pickett slightly braver. Of course, his relationship with his little twig may be irreparably harmed, but they both now know that Pickett is no coward. Not when it counts.

“One of my creatures which escaped was a female Erumpent, a quite rare African beast that I encountered in Namibia. The local witches told me that she had been alone in the region for quite sometime and they urged me to take her with me. I’ve called her Betsy, but I don’t think she cares for the name, honestly. In general, the Erumpent looks like much like Africa’s White Rhino from a distance.”

He gestures with the sweep of his hand. “It’s the horn. But the Erumpent’s horn can pierce anything from skin to metal and contains an explosive fluid which it can inject into its unfortunate target. Of course, it will not attack unless sorely provoked, but the results of such an attack are usually catastrophic. A regular mating season can be quite damaging to populations, as you might imagine.”

Feeling like he’s giving a particularly exciting lecture, Newt continues, “Their horns and tails as well as their exploding fluid, which is called simply, Exploding Fluid, are all used in potions by African wizards, and limited importation is permitted to most European wizarding nations — under strict control, of course. Obviously.

“But when it comes to a creature whose parts are traded for magic and money, there’s none to compare to Southeast Asia’s Occamy. It’s not unlike Central America’s Feathered Serpent, and they’re likely related. The Occamy is a plumed, two-legged creature with wings and a serpentine body —”

“Mr. Scamander,” the lawyer for Mr. Graves interrupts. “That would be a fourth creature.”

“Oh,” he says. “Yes, of course.”

“But I think you’ve done an excellent job establishing yourself as an expert and, indeed, a very well travelled man,” she says.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Now, Mr. Scamander,” Celestine Vanagandr says, “you also had another rare creature with you, didn’t you?” 

She stands between him and Madame President Picquery, and says, “You have an Obscurus in your possession, don’t you?”

“An Obscurus,” Newt says, leaning over the desk before the court, “is not a creature.” 

“Would you be so kind as to tell the court what you believe it is, then?” Vanagandr asks.

“It is a parasitic magical force,” he begins. “Which targets children, children with magic, who have have been traumatized into fearing or suppressing their magic. When relations between wizards and muggles, that is No-Majs, were more violent, when witches were hunted, it was quite common for a child to try not to express their own magic out of fear. This attracts, or perhaps, creates the Obscurus and the child is referred to as an Obscurial.”

Newt looks at Vanagandr, then turns his head to the left. He shifts in his seat.

“And the Obscurus you brought to America, where is its Obscurial?” Vanagandr asks.

Looking down at the desk, Newt says, “She — she was a girl of eight who I encountered in Sudan. I had heard reports and thought that, perhaps, there was a creature, a magical creature, attacking a muggle town. I went there and met with the — it was missionaries, my countrymen in a way, British Anglicans. In the night, something was destroying settlements in the area and causing fires. They felt it was a demon, but it was…”

Newt goes completely still and silent.

“Mr. Scamander,” Vanagandr says. “Please continue.”

“Sorry,” Newt says. “It was a little girl, they said she was about eight years old and very ill. I had convinced them rather easily that I was a doctor, so they took me to her. I knew immediately that she wasn’t possessed, as they said, but she was… She was very sick. Dying.”

His shoulders rise and then fall. “You must understand, I had hoped to save her. The understanding has always been that it is the Obscurus which kills its Obscurial. I did successfully separate the Obscurus from her, but she died afterwards.”

“And you still have the girl’s Obscurus?” Vanagandr asks.

“Yes,” Newt answers. “Without being contained it would simply dissipate, but I did preserve it. Partly out of a sense of scientific impetus, but also out of a desire to honor the girl’s life and her suffering.”

“And this Obscurus,” Vanagandr begins. “It is not the same one which attacked New York City and killed three No-Majs?”

“No,” Newt says. “Obviously not. No one could mistake one for the other. Credence Barebone’s Obscurus far exceeds any and all current understanding we have of the very thing.”

“What do you mean by that, Mr. Scamander?” Vanagandr asks.

“It was believed that an Obscurial could not survive past the age of ten,” Newt says. “It was clearly believed for centuries that an Obscurus had not — could not occur in places where the magical community is well-established and protected. Our society, both here in America, but also in England, across the whole empire, believes that we can identify children with magic and protect them. We are wrong.”

Newt looks directly at President Picquery as he speaks and the flash-bulbs go off from the press area.

“Credence Barebone lived more than twice as long as it was believed an Obscurial could. His existence challenges everything we know about the power of an Obscurus and our ability to identify and prevent this kind of tragedy,” Newt says, directly to the chosen leader of America’s magical community and a representative of his own government. 

“We all failed to identify at least one Obscurus in America, not because one has not existed in centuries, but because it was believed that one could not exist,” Newt says. “That it couldn’t happen here, to one of our own.”

“Thank you, Mr. Scamander,” Vanagandr says. “That is all of my questions for you. I open up the floor to Prosecutor Robowitz.”

The much larger attorney stalks into the space between Newt and President Picquery. He paces as he speaks.

“Mr. Scamander,” he says, agitated. “Before you came to write your book, what was your occupation?”

“I was employed by the Ministry of Magic almost immediately following my graduation,” Newt says. “First in the Office of House-Elf Relocation and then for the Beast Division, both of which fall under the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. I am still, in theory, employed by the Beast Division, however I used a sabbatical to complete my research in North and Western Africa.”

“And how long have you been employed by the Ministry?” Robowitz asks.

“Ten years,” Newt says. “Eight of those have been with the Beast Division.”

“And you consider that long enough to be called an expert?” Robowitz asks.

“I believe it was Celestine Vanagandr who spoke to my expertise,” Newt says. “Certainly, there are things which I do not know about magical creatures, but that is the purpose of my travels and my work — to learn.”

“And you have so much experience with Obscurials that you can refute centuries of writing about such phenomena?” Robotowitz asks.

“I have more experience now than most people have had in centuries,” Newt says, rolling his shoulders. “So, yes, you could say that.”

“But would _you_ say that?” Robowitz says.

“I would say exactly what I have already said, which is that I have more experience than most have had in centuries.”

When Newt fails to change his answer even a little bit, Robowitz changes tactics.

“Please tell the court what your stated purpose was for entering New York City,” he says.

Newt nods his head and looks down at the desk. “My stated purpose was to purchase an Appaloosa Puffskein for myself as a birthday present.”

“Was that your actual purpose for entering New York City?” Robowitz asks.

“No,” Newt says, again nodding his head. “My actual purpose was to transit from New York to the state of Arizona to release Frank, that is a native Thunderbird which I had found being held in a private residence in Egypt.”

“How did a Thunderbird, endemic to North America, wind up in someone’s home in northern Africa?” Robowitz asks.

“I can’t say that I know,” Newt says. “I have no idea. Obviously, it was smuggled. But the owner was reluctant to offer details.”

“Could it have, perhaps, been brought to Egypt in the same way it was brought to America?” Robowitz asks. “In a magically expanded suitcase?”

Newt looks up at Robowitz and whatever expression is on his face, Tina can’t see it. But Robowitz freezes on the floor as suddenly as if Newt had cast a stupefying charm.

“Mr. Robowitz,” Newt says. “If I had smuggled the Thunderbird to Egypt, why would I bring it back again to America and release it? I am well aware that the creatures I carry with me are rare, and some are even quite valuable.”

Newt kicks his feet out from under the desk and sits up.

“If my interest in creatures was purely for money,” he says. “Surely I would’ve found a better pair of boots. I could have sold my Niffler to Goblins for a galleon or two. Instead of helping restore the graphorn population, I could have butchered the pair, even the offspring, for parts.”

“And why didn't you?” Robowitz asks.

“I'm not a monster,” Newt says, his battered work boots thrust out before the court. “And honestly, to call most smugglers and breeders of magical creatures monsters is an insult to these same creatures. The Swooping Evil doesn't pretend to be your friend before it erases your memory and eats part of your frontal lobe through your eye socket.”

He tucks his long legs back under the desk and folds his arms in front of him. 

“I can't say the same about some human beings.”

“You can't?” Robowitz asks. “And why is that? Is it because of your time at Hogwarts?”

“So, you're bringing up my school discipline record,” Newt says, nodding. 

“Would you care to inform the court of that?” Robowitz asks.

Newt clearly doesn't, but he does so anyway.

“And it was during your schooldays that your brother was fighting in the war, was it not?” Robowitz asks.

“It was,” Newt says. “Beginning in 1914.”

“Were you aware that your brother was acquainted with Mr. Percival Graves at this time?”

Newt nods. “No, I was not. But, and I'm sure he would corroborate my statement, I haven't spoken to Theseus for nearly as long as I've been out of contact with Leta Lestrange.”

“So your brother’s friendship with Mr. Percival Graves would in no way influence your actions regarding the suspect?” Robowitz presses.

“I've never even met Mr. Graves,” Newt says. “The man who ordered my execution and attempted on the lives of Tina Goldstein and Credence Barebone was undoubtedly Gellert Grindelwald.”

“How can you be so sure?” Robowitz asks. “If you’ve never met Percival Graves?”

Newt shakes his head and the structure of the courts vaulted walls and ceiling amplifies his whispered, “Forgive me.”

“You have my school record, Mr. Robowitz,” Newt says. “Surely it makes some note about a Professor Albus Dumbledore? I can hardly say that he's told me all that he's told the Ministry and those hunting Grindelwald. In fact, I’d say he told me very little. I couldn’t say I would have known Grindelwald, per se, but I knew that the man posing as Percival Graves could not actually be him.”

“How could you know that?” Robowitz asks, again pacing in the space between Newt Scamander and President Seraphina Picquery.

“He was evil,” Newt says. “There is simply no other word for it when a man thinks of a dead child’s Obscurus in terms of its _usefulness_. It shows such a complete disregard for life, for the value of life.”

“And you believed Percival Graves did not have this, this ‘complete disregard for life’?” Robowitz asks. “Even though, you admit that you have never met.”

“Well,” Newt says. “Yes, in a way. It was very much my experience with American Auror Tina Goldstein which lead me to believe that American aurors were not likely evil.”

“‘Not likely evil’ — what do you mean by that, Mr. Scamander?” 

“I mean that my experiences and observations of Auror Goldstein lead me to believe, with some probability of truth, that the people who work for your MACUSA are good people,” he says. “Who believe they are doing good things, right things.”

“And,” Newt continues when Samson Robowitz begins moving as though he has more to say, “it can be quite dangerous when people who, believing they are good and right, are lead by someone who is neither of those things.”

“Thank you, Mr. Scamander,” Robowitz says. “I’m certain the court notes your opinions. But they are only that: your opinions.”

And with that, he is summarily dismissed.

The court adjourns early. 

Tina has worn a small hole in the cuff of her jacket, straight from the lining all the way through, with her thumbnail.

Newt gets up from his seat at the center of the court and moves stiffly to the left, where Tina waits with her heels bouncing in her shoes. Many feet away, Percival Graves is lead away by two aurors. Even further away, part of Credence Barebone leaves in a rush of cold air.

But Tina Goldstein sits and waits.

“That was amazing,” she says. “Newt, your testimony was just… Wow.”

She can’t stop smiling, she’s been smiling since well before he said her name. But now she can’t stop.

“Thank you,” Newt says, smiling in a lopsided way that has become quite familiar to her by now.

“You deserve a drink,” Tina says. “To celebrate.”

“Tea?” Newt says. “Perhaps with honey?”

“Oh,” she says. “Yes, of course.”

And they go home, where Tina makes a whole pot of tea and they both drink it with honey.

“You can add milk and sugar to tea, just like coffee,” he explains while Tina makes disgusted faces.

“I drink my coffee black,” she says. “My dad… He didn’t have magic, actually, he said it was because I'm a bitter pill.”

“I find you quite sweet, actually,” Newt says. “I'm certain Credence agrees. Don't you, Credence?”

She almost wishes Newt hadn't brought him into this — and not just because it's rather hard to include Credence in conversation without Queenie to translate. But then there’s a certain guilt, as though her discomfort must mean she doesn’t want Credence here at all. 

She rolls her eyes at all of it, at Newt, at herself, at this entire month.

By the time Queenie gets home, Newt and Tina have resorted to playing some strange form of charades with Credence. Tina doesn’t even hear the door, but catches a flash of pink out of the corner of her eye. Queenie leans against the wall, the dividing curtain to her back, with her coat off.

“Havin’ fun?” she asks, looking at Tina in a way that makes her look away. 

Even if Queenie couldn’t read her mind, Tina would feel embarrassed. But as it is, she feels like she’s running around in her own head, trying to pick up her feelings and put them back in their boxes and cupboards. 

“You’re home so early,” Queenie says. “I woulda thought the trial’d be over by now. It just seems to go on and on — and it’s all anybody’s thinkin’ about. I’m so tired of it already.”

Queenie sits down in what Tina has been thinking of as Credence’s chair, but he’s floating near the lamp still making sinuous shapes.

“Oh,” she says, looking at Credence and then at Newt. “Credence says thanks for including him, even when I ain’t around.”

To Credence, she says, “Of course they gotta include you, honey. If I found out they didn’t, I’d jinx ‘em both in their sleep. But they’d never do that. They’re both too sweet, just a pair of kittens really.”

“Yeah, that’s us,” Tina says. “A regular pair of kittens.”

“I suppose it would depend on the species of cat,” Newt says. 

For the first time in a few days, Tina goes to sleep feeling drained but not empty. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was editing a lot of video from a murder trial when I wrote this chapter and the next.
> 
> Oh and I am on tumblr: jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s.tumblr.com


	5. The man without a body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The girl who was Modesty Barebone remembers someone who never hurt her. The man who is Percival Graves remembers someone he never wanted to hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh jeez, so this chapter has the original gangsta Percival Graves discussing fighting and also being captured and imprisoned by Grindelf*ck.
> 
> It also has the OG Graves saying some nice, but also some not particularly nice things about Credence.
> 
> And then some more bad things happen to Graves. Probably shoulda titled it "More bad things happen to Graves," in retrospect.

In the Woolworth Building, not too far from Percival Graves and a ghost he hasn’t told her about, Seraphina Picquery gets about three hours of sleep a night. Having to preside over a high treason trial does not excuse her from all her other duties to the Congress.

She feels herself being pulled as thin as a strand of spiderweb. She touches her silk bonnet as she reviews security briefings on a rash of unauthorized hexes in southeastern Arkansas. The likely culprit, a witch whose squib cousin was hanged by No-Majs, remains at large. A few months ago, this would have been of huge concern. And it still is, but…

Something large and terrifying looms over New York City, over America. Maybe this is just one part of it — magical laws that no longer protect witches and wizards and their families the way they should. 

She doesn’t get visions — like her grandmother — but she can still feel something in the wind. Something terrible. And it’s not just the Obscurus blowing down brownstones like matchstick shanties or Gellert Grindelwald wearing her friend’s face for weeks at her right hand. But that’s part of it.

In the morning, she applies cream below her eyes that hides the shadows. She lays her curls and wraps her hair. She makes herself more beautiful than she is, but not too beautiful. 

Once all other matters of the morning are in order — aurors authorized to cross into Mexico in search of the Arkansas witch and official dispatches sent to the Ministry about their horrible idea of transporting Grindelwald with only their own security — Seraphina goes to court. The winter sun has only begun to rise.

For once, she doesn’t have to face Percival first thing. But that small matter pales in the shadow of what Samson and Celestine want to drag before the court.

“We have a special testimony scheduled for today,” Seraphina tells the court. “Attorneys will be limited to those questions that have been previously approved. Yes?”

“Yes, Madame President,” they both swear.

Dorothea Kemper is a few years younger than Seraphina Picquery, but looks ten years older. She has the kind of face that used to be beautiful, with pale skin and bright blue eyes. But all her features are soft and sagging at the edges. She wears a long dress with a high collar that’s a decade out of style and faded at the elbows. But the little girl clutching the fabric of her skirt has a ruffled pink dress that’s clearly new, with white stockings and white shoes. The bows in her blond hair are also pink.

There are two chairs at the center of the court this morning, and Dorothea sits on one with her daughter in her lap. As though she can’t stand to let her even be so far away as a separate chair.

Celestine Vanagandr has the privilege of going first, as the defense.

“Good morning,” she says. “Please introduce yourself for the court.”

“Dorothea Kemper,” she says.

The child stays quiet.

“And you, miss?” Vanagandr asks, with her hands tucked behind her back like a school marm.

“Lizabeth,” she says. 

Dorothea touches her daughter’s shoulder. “Your whole name, sweetie.”

“Elizabeth Kemper,” the girl says. “But also Lisowski, Elizabeth Lisowski. And I used to be called Modesty, but not anymore. That’s not my real name.”

In lieu of Percival’s flesh and blood, since he has been deemed too dangerous to have in court while a child is present, Celestine presents a photograph.

“Do you recognize this man?” she asks.

Modesty née Elizabeth nods her head and the wispy blond curls at her hairline bounce.

“Sweetie, it’s okay,” Dorothea says to her daughter, patting down her hair. “You should tell them everything you can.”

But Seraphina recognizes stubbornness and childish mistrust in the girl’s face. A child of eight already knows well how to lie; and one with magic, even only a little, knows how to keep secrets.

“Yes,” Elizabeth says. “I’ve seen him. He tried to take me away after I ran, but I saw him before that too. I saw him with Credence, but I didn’t say anything because it was against the rules.”

Elizabeth takes a soft breath in and out. 

“It was against the rules, what I saw Credence do with that man, but I didn’t want him to be in trouble. He always helped me to not be in trouble and, when I broke the rules, he didn’t tell anyone. He never told Ma Barebone, so I wasn’t gonna tell on him.”

“Can you tell the court who Credence was to you, Miss Elizabeth?” Celestine asks. “And what you saw him do with the man in the photograph?”

The girl turns around and clutches her mother, hiding her face. Really, she should be too young for this kind of thing, Seraphina thinks. She’s really too big to be sitting in her mother’s lap this way. It seems manipulative somehow, untrustworthy.

“It’s alright,” Dorothea says. “Tell them, Lizabeth.”

Small shoulders rise and fall with a sigh.

“Ma Barebone said that Credence was my brother,” Elizabeth says. “I knew I had my own brothers and sisters, and he wasn’t really my brother. But he tried to protect me. Ma Barebone was really mean, and she would hit us if we broke the rules. But she didn’t always tell you the rules, so sometimes I didn’t know why she slapped me except that she hated witches and rule-breaking.”

Another full body sigh, this one shivering, and Seraphina wonders how strong she would have been in Elizabeth Kemper’s place. 

In the No-Maj world, of course, Seraphina’s parents could never have met and married. 

There were reasons the Kemper children had been separated from their mother and father. 

It was still a tragedy. But the millions of witches and wizards in America had to be kept safe, and Seraphina knew just how violently opposed to difference No-Majs could be.

Would Elizabeth Kemper understand that someday? Or would she only grow to see the laws of secrecy as the thing that left her at the mercy of a woman who beat her?

“She hit Credence the most,” Elizabeth says. “She didn’t even care if we saw, if all the church members and the other kids saw her do it. I think she hated him especially.”

When the child falls into silence again, Celestine looks to Seraphina.

“Miss Kemper,” she says. “Miss Elizabeth, there was a second question.”

The girl’s eyes widen.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It was a mistake! I forgot! What was the question?”

Her hands make white-knuckled fists on her mother’s sleeves.

“What did you see Credence do with the man in the photograph?” Celestine asks.

“They would meet in the alley,” Elizabeth says. “Or behind the church where we lived. But Credence wasn’t supposed to leave after dark or talk to strangers like that. They were friends, and Ma Barebone didn’t like us to have any friends. But Credence always wanted me to play with my friends, so I wasn’t going to tell on him for being outside with that man.”

“And when you did meet the man? What happened then, Miss Elizabeth?” Celestine asks.

“It was really scary,” she answers. “I had… I ran away. Uhm, I had broken the rules really bad. I did something bad. It was just a game, but it was really, really bad. And Credence found out first but then Ma Barebone knew, and I knew that Credence would tell her that he did it — did the really bad thing. But I couldn’t —”

The little girl chokes. There’s color in her cheeks, a brighter pink than her dress.

“I couldn’t let him get hit because of me,” she says, and Seraphina thinks the look on her face could be pain or it could be anger.

“I couldn’t.”

The girl lets go of her mother and turns to face forward, to face Seraphina and Celestine.

“Ma Barebone was going to hit me instead, because I wouldn’t let her hit Credence,” she says. “But then the belt flew out of her hand and she knew it was magic. I thought it was me, but it wasn’t — it was Credence and he was really, really scary. He…”

One deep breath and release. Then a second. 

“He killed her,” Elizabeth says. “She deserved it. But he killed her. I was scared he would kill me. And he was so different and it was so scary, so I ran away.”

She looks over her shoulder at her mother. “I ran home, where I used to live. But it was empty, so I just hid inside. Once there had been a really bad storm and mama made us all hide in the bathroom, and Credence was like that — he looked like a thunderstorm — so I hid in the bathroom. And that’s where the man found me and tried to take me away.”

Another shaky sigh.

“But I was too scared, and I knew if the man was here that Credence would be nearby. And he was. But he didn’t hurt me. Credence never hurt me and he didn’t let that man hurt me either. He _never_ let anyone hurt me.” 

“Thank you, Miss Elizabeth,” Celestine says. “My colleague, Mr. Robowitz, also wants to ask you a few questions.”

“Alright,” Elizabeth says.

Seraphina watches as Samson approaches the desk at the center of the court. He towers over Dorothea and her daughter, but Seraphina doubts the girl is all that intimidated.

She faced down what was likely Gellert Grindelwald wearing the face of Percival Graves and a young man she called her brother turning into a murdering Obscurus. But Samson kneels down and puts himself at Elizabeth’s level.

It’s not anything Seraphina would think to do, but Samson has… A son, she thinks. Perhaps a son and a daughter.

“Hello Miss Elizabeth,” he says.

“You’re Mr. Robowitz?” she asks.

“I am,” he says. “Can I ask you more about the man in the photo?”

The girl nods her head. “Yes.”

“When did you first see him?”

“I don’t remember,” Elizabeth says. “Not exactly, I know I saw him a lot more in the winter, but I saw him before that too, cause it wasn’t cold but he still always wore a coat.”

“And, during that same time, did Credence mention anyone to you?”

Elizabeth nods again and chews on her lips. “He said he had met someone interestin’, but he didn’t know that I already knew that. I didn’t want him to worry that he would get in trouble. I would never tell… Except I’m telling you, I know, but I woulda never told Ma Barebone.”

“That was very kind of you,” Samson says. “Thank you for telling me and the court all of these things.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” Elizabeth says.

“Now, did you notice anything different about Credence at this time, Miss Elizabeth?” Samson asks. “It seems like he was very close to you.”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t notice anything scary about Credence until… Until he killed Ma Barebone. I didn’t know at all that he could do that. But, I guess, it’s not a scary thing, but he was happier. I don’t know, he was never happy, really. But sometimes he wrote on the torn pamphlets and I think he smiled, almost smiled.”

Elizabeth looks at Samson. 

“Are you gonna ask me again about what Credence was writing?” she asks.

“I am,” Samson says.

“The other lady, Mrs. Vangardener also asked me the same questions,” she says.

“Mrs. Vanagandr and I just wanted to make sure you didn’t feel surprised here in front of so many people,” Samson explains.

“Well, alright, you can ask me the question now,” Elizabeth says. “I won’t be surprised.”

“Thank you, Miss Elizabeth,” he says. “Could you tell me what Credence was writing?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “But sometimes he scratched it out entirely, and put it with the garbage to burn in the stove. I wasn’t supposed to go near the stove, because I could be burned. But Ma Barebone’s rules were bad and I wanted to know what Credence was doing. So I looked, but I could only see a name.”

“What was that name?” Samson asks.

Seraphina closes her eyes and sighs. She’s read the depositions they both submitted. She already knows what Elizabeth will say.

“Mr. Graves,” she says.

The press box goes a little crazy then, with flash-bulbs and gasps. Even some of the other witnesses murmur, as though this is surprising.

In the name of Good Witch Morrigan, Seraphina doesn’t want Percy to be guilty.

But he might be, for this. He really might be.

“But!” Elizabeth says. “That was in the summer! It was a long time before Credence got scary.”

“Thank you, Miss Elizabeth,” Samson says.

“I have no questions,” Seraphina says, and her two fellow judges don’t object. “Let the witnesses be dismissed. Thank you for your time, Misses Kemper.”

Once off her mother’s lap, Elizabeth tucks one foot behind the other and holds her skirt to curtsy. Perhaps, if Seraphina was another kind of woman, she would be touched. She manages a smile, but her mind is already an hour ahead.

She calls a recess for the court, once the Kempers go, and when they return Celestine Vanagandr will present Percival.

He’s the last stone left unturned, but Seraphina dreads it.

Her voice never wavers. Her chin stays lifted. Her back holds straight.

“This court is adjourned.”

At this time, an auror goes to the top floor of the Woolworth Building and tells another auror to bring Mr. Graves down for his trial. As they lead their former superior out of the presidential suite, Credence Barebone follows them like a malevolent wind. 

If he passes Dorothea Kemper and her blonde daughter, he doesn’t recognize the girl with her clean hair and her pink dress. But neither does Percival Graves recognize the darkness that stalks him as being Credence, living and nearly breathing.

But Graves, himself, looks just as anyone would recognize him. His well-tailored suits hide a body that has lost muscle and gained scars. His hair, cut before the trial, has been combed back with pomade and he shaves each morning.

He wasn’t there, of course, but he hopes he unnerves every auror who saw his face melt into that of Gellert Grindelwald. They should be ashamed.

In chains, two aurors lead him to the seat where he’s observed most of his trial — save, as he understands it, whichever witness testified this morning.

“It’s a child,” one of his guards had told him.

And Percival shakes his head, trying to conceive of why they wouldn’t want him around a child. Because of Credence’s age? Because they’re both men? Because he might be half-fairy and half-fascist like Grindelwald? Every possible option appalls him.

“Before we begin,” Celestine Vanagandr says. “I file my petition for the use of veritaserum.”

She hands the paperwork off to Seraphina’s assistant, while Samson Robowitz barks his objection.

“Percival Graves is a highly competent Occulmens, not unlike Gellert Grindelwald,” he argues. “He would be capable of resisting the effects of veritaserum, while giving the full impression of truthfulness.”

They file their paperwork, but the veritaserum has surely already been prepared for him. Percival expected this; Samson’s objection matches the exact reason Celestine wanted it used. He doesn’t care. Veritaserum can be rather like being drunk: it reveals unvarnished, ugly truths when it works best. 

His prowess as an Occulmens once was among his laudable assets to magical law enforcement, to the international magical community, and to the seat of the president. It meant he was capable of resisting torture, of keeping state secrets at any cost. Now it’s just something he shares with Gellert Grindelwald.

The first dose is administered when Percival takes a seat at the table at the center of the court.

“Now, please state your name for the court,” Celestine says.

“Percival Graves,” he says. “The original.”

He turns to the press and offers a smile that sets off flash bulbs.

“41, almost 42 years of age,” he says. “Ilvermorny Class of 1904, Horned Serpent. Do you want my foreign enlistment service number as well?”

“No, Mr. Graves, that will suffice,” she says. “Now then, could you please tell the court when you first encountered Gellert Grindelwald.”

“To my knowledge,” Percival says. “February 1922, during my first international trip as Seraphina’s — President Picquery’s Director of Security. Grindelwald moved on the meeting between then-Minister Ballard and Princess Vasilisa Yaga, in pursuit of an artifact which the princess did not possess.”

The princess also lost a leg to a particularly nasty blast, but she had happily showed off her iron prosthetic the last time Graves had seen her at an intercontinental gathering in Paris. 

“And, most recently?” Celestine asks.

“I believe it was the middle of November, this year,” Percival says. “But, by that point, I had lost track of the days.”

“Describe this encounter,” Celestine says. “What was said? What did you do on that day?”

Percival lets the memory float to the forefront of his mind in all the detail he can recollect. It's quite the opposite of Occulmency — flooding his own mind rather than emptying it.

“He told me, ‘You'll die here,’” Percival says. “And I believed him.”

The smell of urine and blood fills his nose at the memory. He lets Celestine guide him backwards in time with her questions. 

And it’s the smells which remain most vivid in his memory — the smell of copper in the water coming out of the pipes, the horrible ammonia smell of his own skin, the rotted and sulfurous smell of Grindelwald’s magic. Then, the taste of his own blood in his mouth. The cold.

Before that, Graves explains, there was Europe and the Black Forest, which was much more than forest. The familiar mud and blood of war. Opponents even more cruel than they had anticipated, preferring the killing curse only when cornered.

More time spent curing and healing than fighting, with witches split open, poisoned and disfigured by the blasts of magic they’d failed to block.

“One of the casualties had his lungs apparated out of his body rather forcefully,” Percival recalls.

Wallowing in the muck of these memories tires him — and takes so long he has to be re-dosed with veritaserum.

He understands Celestine’s tactics, as she asks him about whether these encounters with Grindelwald had left even the slightest opening for Graves to be compromised. But Percival remembers exhaustion and anger — without much talking between bouts of violence and recovery.

“The pontification was mostly saved for the short period of time during which he was captured, before he killed everyone and fled,” Percival says. “And that was horseshit, mostly.”

It would almost be fun, if the circumstances were different, to tell everyone how much he despises Gellert Grindelwald. 

Likewise, when Celestine asks Percival about Credence, he throws himself fully into his memories. 

“I went to see what Auror Goldstein had reported for myself,” he says, and can feel the warmth of a late spring afternoon against his neck. The wet weather at the time had done nothing to make New York smell any better, still the same bouquet of piss and rotting garbage.

He tries to describe the feeling of being watched from across the street, the first time he met Credence’s eyes. The shock of surprise at being seen and the hot wash of embarrassment. He had been using concealment charms for how long in this city? And this was the day he messed it up.

“It’s New York,” Percival says. “Who even notices other people in this city?”

Someone behind him snickers.

He’s told this story a few times now to various aurors and interrogators, but it’s somehow more fun with veritaserum and an audience. Percival feels himself smile slightly.

An investigation into very serious possible violations of the statute possibly connected to an ongoing mysterious use of magic, it all seemed very — well, kosher. He filed reports at first, adding to what Goldstein had found.

He had given her permission to make contact, of course, but it was as if Credence gave one portion of the truth to Tina Goldstein and a different portion to Percival Graves. 

“He kept secrets,” Percival says. “I suppose I couldn’t even grasp how many secrets at the time.”

He didn’t know Credence was an Obscurial, didn’t even suspect it. He didn’t suspect magic in the young man for even a second. 

Under the veritaserum, he foolishly admits, “I wished it, at times, when we were quite involved. Imagined myself a hero, a knight, and him as… I don’t even know, a particularly masculine damsel in distress.”

The scratch of auto-quills and tap of keys grows so furious that Percival actually turns toward it.

“Morrigan’s wand, you vultures are eating this up, aren’t you?”

“Mr. Graves,” Seraphina Picquery says, in a voice that fills the whole court. 

He looks at her, fully decked out in gold and velvet, and goes silent. 

At his third dose of veritaserum, Percival wonders what sort of hangover he might expect tomorrow.

But Celestine continues her extremely thorough questioning. She has him identify people from photographs, ending on one of a pale, blonde child.

“I’ve never seen her before in my life,” he says.

“So,” Celestine says, keeping the photo aloft for the court, “You never met Modesty Barebone?”

“No, never. Credence… spoke of her often, worried about her. But I never met her.”

“Thank you, Mr. Graves,” she says. “That will be all from me.”

Seraphina adjourns the court for an hour — so that everyone can take an early dinner or a late lunch.

“I anticipate the next portion of this trial could last for some time,” she warns the whole court.

“Oh, good,” Percival mutters under his breath. Maybe she hears him, maybe she doesn’t. Maybe the whole damn High Court of the Magical Congress of the United States of America hears him.

They allow him water, but don’t offer an antidote to the veritaserum. If Percival wanted to, he could likely shake it off. All he would need to do is clear his mind. 

He should. He tries.

Closing his eyes, all Percival Graves sees is darkness. It closes in on all sides. The smell of blood. He jolts upright and opens his eyes as suddenly as though he’d felt a razor slice through the air beside his cheek. 

Every breath comes too fast through his nose. He clenches his fist and forces himself to stop. He’s hyperventilating. Jumping at shadows that… That probably, _hopefully_ don’t exist anywhere outside Percival’s head. 

He drinks his glass of water and doesn’t even want for a meal. His empty stomach seems to squirm inside his body like a snake. His throat feels tight when he swallows water.

Next, he’ll face Samson Robowitz, a man he went to school with — a man who pursued auror training, but didn’t have the stomach for it. He’s proved a ruthless prosecutor for MACUSA, a dog with every bone that Seraphina tosses him. And, now, Percival is that bone.

Percival allows himself to scrub his face with his hands. He hides behind them until the darkness closes in again.

His hour of respite takes forever. From the center of the court, Percival has a better view of the people in attendance. He recognizes too many of them.

It’s absolutely reassuring that Tina Goldstein will get to hear, no doubt, every salacious detail that Samson can drag out of Percival’s head. After he grilled her over every report on the New Salemers that she submitted, let her believe it wasn’t a priority.

If Percival was interested in untangling the nest of writhing regrets that seems to have replaced every organ in his body, he might start with Tina Goldstein.

If he didn’t start with Credence Barebone.

Or Seraphina.

Or not simply shoving his wand through Gellert Grindelwald’s eye socket and into his brain at the first opportunity. (If there had ever been that opportunity.)

“Good afternoon, Mr. Graves,” Samson says, standing very close to the front of the desk. 

Percival is shackled to his chair — again. His choices are to look at Samson’s belt buckle or to lift his chin and look up at him.

Instead, Percival looks to his left and searches for Tina Goldstein in the crowd.

“I said —”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Robowitz,” Percival says. “Shall we get to the questions?”

“It’s been over an hour,” Samson says. “Surely the veritaserum has worn off.”

Percival rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bother to look up at Samson.

“Alright then,” he says.

The fourth dose feels just as cold and slimy, mucousal, going down his throat as the first three.

Percival counts down from ten inside his head and doesn’t fight the way veritaserum wants to untie inhibitions and secrets. He lets his head fill with thoughts and feelings and sensations, memories instead of darkness.

“You never met Modesty Barebone?” Samson asks.

“No,” Percival says. “Never.”

“By now, she must be quite famous in our little city,” Samson says. “Don’t you read the paper? She was on the front page of the Ghost.”

If Samson just wanted Percival to look at him, that grants his wish. Percival leans back against his bound arms and stares at Samson without blinking.

“I apologize, Grindelwald didn’t offer much in the way of periodicals while he had me imprisoned in the wall of a No-Maj theater.”

Samson, who saw Percival drunkenly climb one of Ilvermorny’s guardian statues when he was a sixth year, looks unbothered. He rolls his broad shoulders.

“And what about now?” he asks.

“MACUSA has not seen it fit to keep me informed while they have imprisoned either,” Percival says. “I’ve been reading a lot of books.”

“You really think the court believes you had a dalliance with Credence Barebone and never met his sister?” Samson asks.

“The court can choose to believe me or not,” Percival says. “I never met either of the girls Credence said were his sisters. I was in enough risk of breaking the law by speaking to him, why would I want to meet the family?”

Samson frowns down at him.

“Or were you only interested in Credence?” Samson asks.

“Yes,” Percival says. “Obviously.”

“Yet, you say you didn’t know he was an Obscurial,” Samson says. “Is that right, Mr. Graves?”

“Yes,” Percival says. “How could I have? Everything I know of the Obscurus phenomenon is from history books. It’s an affliction of children — a fatal one.”

He feels one of the vipers in his belly slither up and bite acidically at the back of his tongue.

“And Credence?” Samson asks.

Percival’s lip twitches slightly at the way Samson makes such a show of calling him Mr. Graves, but calls Credence Barebone by only his first name.

“He was no child, Samson,” he says.

“So, then, if you didn’t pursue a dangerous magical being on behalf of Gellert Grindelwald,” Samson says, finally beginning his grandiose pacing that he loves so much. “Then you certainly intended to break the law by fraternizing with No-Majs. Isn’t that so, Mr. Graves?”

“I believe that what I did was not in violations of the statutes,” Percival says, and he believes it still. “Marriage, cohabitation — that would have been a violation, obviously. Anything that could risk exposure of magic. But picking up a working girl in SoHo isn’t illegal — not for us. It wasn’t dissimilar, what I did.”

If Samson’s going to use this tactic, then Percival will throw himself against the dog’s teeth.

“Could you clarify, for the court, what you mean by that?” Samson asks, turning on his heel to cross the court floor.

“It was like, a wizard meeting with a No-Maj prostitute,” Percival says. “At least that’s what I thought at the time.”

“And do you often receive love notes from the No-Maj whores you frequent, Mr. Graves?”

This makes Percival really, truly scowl.

“No,” he says. “But what I mean is that I wasn’t bringing him around to my apartment for a fuck, Samson. It wasn’t a relationship that could — or would — go anywhere for either of us. It was practically transactional.”

“And what did you offer in this transaction?”

“I already told the court,” he says. “It began as part of an investigation. I was trying to help him. I thought I could… spare him.”

“From what?” Samson asks him.

“From whom: the woman pretending to be his mother, the people around him who looked past a woman beating the children she took in, maybe even from myself.”

“From you?” Samson asks, pausing in his march across the floor. “And why would he need protection from you, Mr. Graves?”

“I just compared him to a SoHo whore in front of the president and an entire press corp, Samson, why do you _think_?” Percival says. He leans forward, but keeps from pressing his body against the table. 

“He was young — incredibly vulnerable and naïve, but lovely. So lovely and full of heart. I felt like I could’ve murdered him with a harsh word, it wouldn’t even take magic.”

“How romantic of you, Mr. Graves,” Samson says. “Or morbid, perhaps.”

When Samson freely moves his hands, Percival feels the weight of chains on his own wrists.

“So you never suspected the boy had magic?” Samson asks.

“Never,” Percival says.

“But you did suspect magic in connection with the New Salem fracas,” Samson says. “That’s what you put in your reports, what even your Auror Goldstein put in hers. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Percival says.

“What was it about Credence Barebone that made him above suspicion, then?” Samson asks.

“If you —” Percival begins. “If you met him — No, it was — It seemed so clear then. If anyone in New Salem was acting with maliciousness, if anyone wanted to destroy magic in America, it was that woman Mary Lou. She was the obvious suspect, and Credence and his sisters were mere victims.”

“That’s how you saw Credence?” Samson asks. “A mere victim?”

“No,” Percival says. “No, I — perhaps at first, but even then. He knew he was disobeying his mother to even speak to me. I posed as having an interest in the organization, but he saw through that as easily as my failed concealment. He was… He knew what he was doing.”

“Is that what you want to believe, Mr. Graves?” 

“Yes,” Percival says. He wants to believe it so badly that it still hurts.

“So Credence Barebone was a traitor to his mother —”

“She beat him bloody,” Percival interjects.

“— and regularly in contact with a high-level witch and wizard of MACUSA’s law enforcement arm,” Samson barrels forward over Percival’s words. “Before he became the ‘mere victim’ of an intercontinental criminal? And destroyed New York City? Is that what happened?”

Percival wants to spit and feels certain that it would burn right through the varnish on the table before him.

“I wouldn’t know,” Percival says. “At the time, an intercontinental criminal had left me in a wall to die. I believe he was wearing my face — as I understand it, that’s what happened.”

“As you understand it?” Samson asks. “Tell me, Mr. Graves, how did such a criminal overpower and imprison America’s top auror, a war hero, the right hand of our own president?”

Percival swallows as the memory swims quite vividly to the forefront of his mind. Samson didn’t miss a detail in his deposition, did he?

“He used my weakness against me,” Percival says.

“And what weakness was that?” Samson asks.

“My relationship with Credence Barebone,” Percival says. “It must be a favorite of his tricks — wearing other people’s faces. But he didn’t make much of an effort for verisimilitude. Perhaps it was outside his range as an actor.”

“And how did you recognize that?” Samson asks.

“His clothes were wrong,” Percival says, which is exactly what he has told every auror and lawyer before.

“And he tried to kiss me in broad daylight,” Percival says, which is entirely the veritaserum. He feels breath on his lips, sour and sulfurous. It was a secret he would have preferred to keep until his death.

“I knew it wasn’t Credence,” Percival says. “It couldn’t be. But I recognized it was Gellert Grindelwald by his wand.”

“That’s a new detail,” Samson says.

“No, it’s not,” Percival says, pretending as though Samson’s comment is about the wand.

Samson smirks at him, with one hand in his pocket.

“It sounds as though you have quite a lot in common with Gellert Grindelwald,” Samson says. “Occlumency, a propensity for dark magic, pureblood families, is that right? And your sexual inclinations?”

“Go jump in the Sound, Samson,” Percival says. “I also take my coffee black with two sugars. My personal life doesn’t put me in league with Grindelwald anymore than your love of hair charms does.”

Samson has the decency to look offended, which he ought to be. Percival actually feels himself pulling at the chains on his wrists until the bones ache. He’d punch the man, if he could, and the whole High Court could go burn on a stake.

“Some men are more Alexander than Arthur,” Percival says. “We’re not like the No-Majs about it. It’s not some sign of inner wickedness, you complete knob.”

“I didn’t say that,” Samson says. “Wickedness? You’re really jumping to conclusions here, Percival. It’s only that both you and Grindelwald had a particular interest in the Barebone boy, the Obscurial. It raises suspicions.”

“Objection,” Celestine says from the sidelines. “Is there a question in there, Mr. Robowitz.”

Samson smiles like a serpent. “Tell me, Mr. Graves, did you get what you wanted out of your relationship with Credence? As _transactional_ as it was?” 

“Yes,” Percival says. Then, “No.”

“Which is it, Mr. Graves?” he asks again.

“No,” Percival says. “I didn’t get what I wanted. But I didn’t expect to. Not ever.”

“What is it you wanted from Credence?” Samson asks, and that brings a flood of images to Percival’s mind that he doesn’t care to share with the court. He’s fighting the veritaserum now and, yes, he’s still quite the Occlumens. Even if he may be losing his mind.

“Do you really want to know?” Percival asks.

“Well, we all know what Mr. Grindelwald wanted from the boy,” Samson says. “He wanted to destroy the secrecy that protects magic in America. He wanted a war, and the boy would be his weapon. He’s said as much.”

Percival swallows and works the muscles in his jaw. His tongue moves in his mouth, unwilling to make a sound. He could point out that Grindelwald is, above everything else, a talented liar. But there’s a deeper truth here.

“I didn’t want that,” Percival says. “I devoted my life — my life’s blood to that secrecy, to the laws of my country. It isn’t perfect, surely Credence stands as a testament to that. But I’ve seen war, and it would — it would take a madman to _desire_ that sort of thing.” 

“Then what did you _want_ from this boy Credence?” Samson presses. 

To have him, Percival doesn’t think. To have him and keep him. To sweep him away from his painful, ordinary life in a flash of power and replace all his sorrows with ecstasies. Percival wants his smiles, his kisses, the taste of his skin, the steady and adoring gaze of his eyes. He wants to lock them both away somewhere safe, somewhere without fear or darkness or inconvenient laws, and then devour him inch by shivering inch.

And he’s not going to fucking say that in court just because Samson Robowitz wants to make him look like some kind of unhinged, traitorous pervert.

“I wanted more than I got,” Percival says, through clenched teeth. “But I never asked for those things. I couldn’t, it would’ve been illegal. If he was a No-Maj.”

“Could you provide more detail?” Samson asks.

“Objection,” Celestine says.

“In what interest of the court’s are Mr. Percival Graves’ unfulfilled desires? He has already admitted the nature of his relationship with Mr. Credence Barebone.”

Samson turns to Seraphina, then, and Percival has a moment to breathe without feeling like his guts are going to jump out of his throat.

“It is in the interest of distinguishing Percival Graves’ goals for the Obscurial from Gellert Grindelwald’s,” Samson says. 

“Objection upheld,” Seraphina says. “If you wish to pursue this line of questioning, Mr. Robowitz, you can be more specific. This is a courtroom, not a gentleman’s club. There’s no place for innuendo.”

“Yes, Madam President,” Samson says.

Percival’s next few breaths shake his ribs on the way out.

“Mr. Graves,” Samson says, his brows low over his eyes. He’s furious, Percival can see.

“Did you wish to break the law with Credence Barebone?” he asks.

“Yes,” Percival says. “But I didn’t, I believe I didn’t.”

“Which laws?” he asks.

“Those against fraternization with No-Majs,” Percival says. “Specifically, I — I would have liked. A closer relationship, more physical, perhaps with co-habitation or — I don’t know. It was — it’s impossible now, no matter what.”

“How did your relationship with Credence Barebone impact your perspective on the law?” Samson asks.

“It didn’t,” he answers. “I swear it didn’t.”

“How could you defend the core statutes of the Magical Congress if you wanted to break them?” Samson asks.

“I didn’t break them,” Percival says. “I didn’t — I knew the importance of the law, it protects more people than it hurts. Obviously, it hurts people, our people. But we see every day across the country what No-Majs are capable of, what they do to each other. The law is greater, more important, than one man, even when I am that man.”

“And yet, you kept your relationship a secret, Mr. Graves?” Samson asks. “Did that not allow it to be a weakness which, as you say, was exploited by a dangerous criminal?”

“Yes,” Percival says. “Yes, I did those things.”

“Isn’t preventing that kind of a situation the very core of the law, Mr. Graves? I mean, we’ve both studied it quite closely, I’d say.”

Percival lets his breath out very slowly. He could clear his mind, really. It feels as though the veritaserum is wearing off anyway. He feels as though he’s been questioned for hours.

“Yes,” Percival says. “Yes, this is… This was what the law was meant to prevent. What I did is what the law was meant to prevent.”

“Isn’t that considered a violation of —”

“Yes!” Percival snaps. “Yes, fine! You’re right! I broke the law, I was wrong to pursue a relationship with him. I should have told someone. I should have left the whole case in Goldstein’s hands and alerted President Picquery that I was compromised.”

He really doesn’t breathe any easier for having said it. And he’s not sure why he thought he would.

“Very dramatic,” Samson says. “But I hope you don’t think that’s the end of my questions for you, Percival.”

He tips his head back and groans — let the auto-quills figure out how to record _that_. 

But it’s easier. It’s easier when Samson’s not asking him about Credence. Talking about Theseus Scamander — “No, I never met his younger brother. Theseus wrote about him to me, at times. But we rarely see each other.”

Or Tina Goldstein — “Capable and observant, but often rash in her actions.”

These memories don’t hurt. They don’t feel as if they’re being pulled out of him like the brains from an Egyptian mummy, twisted on a spike and yanked out of his skull. It’s bloodless.

But when Samson’s finished with him hours later and Seraphina adjourns the court for the day, Percival feels wretched. His hunger has turned into something toothy that makes him feel hollow inside. It’s the horrible emptiness of vomiting, of dizzying blood loss, of grief.

The aurors who remove him from the court have to hold him up by the shoulders and Percival’s leg, the one that was broken in three places, drags slightly. He keeps his eyes down.

The ward at the edge of the courtroom looks damaged in a way that sends a spike of paranoia up his spine. Even if Grindelwald is in a cell somewhere, he has his loyalists. If Percival Graves has ever been vulnerable, it is in this hour.

The sight of the granite floor scratched — as if with claws and teeth — haunts him all the way up to the top floor of the Woolworth Building. 

“We’re just outside if you need anything, Mr. Graves, sir,” the aurors say, as though they still work for him.

Percival rubs his wrists, pressing his thumb against tender skin and muttering the words of wandless charms for healing. 

At least, he thinks, it’s over. For today. It’s over.

He takes three steps through the opulent sitting room before a chilling wind sweeps past him. The lights go out, every single one. 

Percival stands very still. His first thought: Gellert Grindelwald is loosed and come for him.

The smell of dark magic permeates the suite, or seems to. Maybe it only surrounds him. He doesn’t dare move.

But it’s not sulfurous, exactly. Percival shivers from cold and the smell of coal smoke fills his lungs when he breathes.

“Credence,” he says, though this seems much grander than anything the ghost of Credence Barebone has done before. 

Unless, Percival begins to think.

Something strikes him in the chest, a direct blow that knocks him to the floor. Weight settles on his chest like an iron anvil. Every inch of his skin feels covered in gooseflesh, every hair stands on end.

“Credence,” he wheezes. “What is this.”

In the dark, Percival sees two points of light suddenly appear before him and then disappear. He pushes at the weight on his chest with both hands. Cold bites into his bones. Like he’ll never be warm again. As though warmth never existed.

But the weight disappears and Percival struggles to his feet.

“ _Lumos_ ,” he says, sharply. The palm of his right hand fills with light as it might water. 

All he sees are the shadows of the furniture.

“You’re getting stronger,” Percival says. “Aren’t you, Credence?” 

It’s either the ghost of a man who died without a body, or it’s Grindelwald, or it’s Percival’s own magic turned against him. He knows he doesn’t have this kind of power in his blood. Not for this. And he can only hope that Grindelwald would just kill him outright at this point.

So it must be Credence. He _wants_ it to be Credence. 

How grotesque of him.

“I…” Percival begins. “I’m sorry.”

The cold wind runs through him again and this time Percival turns and follows it. For those without magic, the cold and dark are indications of a ghost. Sometimes, they might even see inexplicable lights. But of course, witches and wizards should be able to see the very shape of the death.

What shape is an Obscurial’s death?

What form hath the formless dark?

Percival moves toward the freezing cold.

“You’re angry, and I’m keeping you here,” Percival says. “You should be angry. I deserve it, I won’t ask for you to forgive me. I… Terrible things happened to you because of me. You know it, don’t you? That’s why you’re here.”

Percival’s shoulder clips the edge of a bookcase and he staggers. 

A weight pushes down on his shoulders. Percival goes to his knees. The roaring in his ears grows from the sound of his blood to something like a motorcar engine, or a growling beast. Percival feels something scratch the nape of his neck. The darkness pulls at his clothes.

He takes off his jacket, then his waistcoat. It’s not as if either provide any protection against this cold.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, because ghosts are meant to stay where they die. Not that Percival wants something this powerful and malevolent haunting the Civic Center subway station.

“You shouldn’t be in New York City at all,” he says. “This is my fault, I know.”

“If I had been a better man,” Percival says, because he’s selfish. Because he wants the blame. 

If _he_ had been a better man, a better auror, a better leader, there shouldn’t have been a fucking _Obscurus_ in New York City at all. Let alone one who has — _had_ been alive nearly as long as Percival _had_ been an auror. Decades of power and suffering were packed beneath Credence Barebone’s ill-fitting clothes, and all Percival had thought of was… 

At least Goldstein had wanted to help. She’d wanted to rush in and arrest Mary Lou, to protect the children around her. And Percival had told her to wait, had questioned every move she made. All while he kissed Credence in shady doorways and hidden corners. 

He wrote letters simply for the pleasure of being adored by someone beautiful and in need of him, only him.

If he had died in the Black Forest, no one would have known to tell Credence.

But if he’d died in the Black Forest, no one would have come looking for him in New York City and found Credence instead.

The sharp weight at the back of his neck feels like a claymore ready to take off his head.

“If you don’t kill me,” Percival says. “I’ll have to… I’ll have to get rid of you. Or someone else will.”

The cold grabs Percival by the throat. Squeezes the air out of him.

And then, like always, it lets go.

Percival doubles over for a moment to take a gasping breath. Then he pushes to his feet.

It would be impossible to put Credence to rest, to give his death some measure of peace and tranquility. Even though that’s all Credence ever deserved. 

Still, Percival’s honestly not sure he knows powerful enough wandless magic to dispel all the power and pain that Credence dragged with him in death.

“You should kill me,” he tells Credence’s ghost.

Because otherwise Percival will likely fail. He won’t be able to banish this spirit. And then he won’t allow anyone else to do it. He’d keep Credence like this, even if it meant that all there was left of him was pain.

It feels, rather, like that’s all that’s left of Percival anyway. As though Gellert Grindelwald tore out everything inside his body and his life that mattered and left him to die. It would’ve been better if he had died.

And that is true cowardice, he knows, because he only wants it to spare himself. If he’d died where Grindelwald left him… He’d never have known anything of what became of Credence Barebone because of him.

He feels magic in the bones of his hands at the same time that tears prick the inside of his eyes.

“Credence!” he shouts.

Something in the dark goes crashing down — probably a bookcase.

“This has to end!” he announces. “It should never have happened, none of it!”

When Percival feels the cold approaching, he braces his feet against the ground and, though it drives into him like a pike, he remains standing. In the contained space of the suite, the wind howls. Small objects rattle and crash to the ground. Distantly, Percival hears china and glass breaking in the kitchen.

“Stop!” 

And it does.

The dark evaporates so quickly that Percival’s left rubbing his eyes. His hands come back from his face wet.

Everything in the suite that Percival can see has been upended and overturned. His eyes scan the chaos of broken furniture and torn books. It looks like a hurricane struck.

And at the center, where his eyes go, the darkness hangs like a funeral shroud.

Percival blinks at it, watching darkness flow off the almost-shape of a man and then turn to rising smoke.

“Credence?” Percival asks, his voice much smaller than it was. 

Something rises from the darkness like an outstretched hand. It moves like flowing water, so clearly inhuman and unliving. He’s never seen anything like it.

It makes him feel sick, really, to think this is all that’s left. Worse, that he would keep just this. 

Percival steps over broken glass and a shredded rug to reach Credence, what remains of him. It has eyes, almost, points of white light buried in the dark. And Percival feels just as entranced as he ever had when looking into Credence’s eyes.

Close up, the darkness has Credence’s strong features and hunched shoulders.

The dark hand reaches out and takes Percival by the back of his neck. It feels like ice. Like a thousand perfect needles.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I loved you. I did love you. Not enough, but I did.”

He expects the shadow to grab him by the throat, to reach into him and tear his heart out. Instead, it runs its ice cold hand down to his arm and looks at him with white eyes.

“You shouldn’t exist,” he says. “Not like this. You shouldn’t have… It shouldn’t have been this way.”

The shadow of Credence Barebone shudders. Pieces of it float away as smoke. Percival feels the hairs go up on the back of his neck.

He knows he has to act now, or there will be no other chance. He speaks the words, firmly, and uses his hands to do it. It’s almost intimate. Almost like touching Credence again, in a way. 

Everything goes dark. A great force knocks Percival onto his back and sends him skidding for many feet. The very walls of the Woolworth Building seem to shake. Percival hears a groan that’s more metal than human.

Then a crack.

His instincts have him curl in on himself to protect his neck and head. 

The chandelier comes crashing down.

The wind howls; it screams. 

Aurors break down the door, of course. The darkness floods with all the lights of their wands. They drag Percival up off the floor and demand to know what happened.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know.”

And even veritaserum couldn’t pull the truth from him.

A team of six looks over the suite and finds every bulb and lamp shattered. The chandelier’s in pieces. Everything that Credence could destroy, it seems, he has. 

Except Percival. Though his shirt has been shredded to tatters, there’s not even a scratch on him.

“I’ll get Picquery,” someone whispers, while Percival Graves stands in the dark, shivering. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to tell me how mad you are at me in the comments or on tumblr @ jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s.tumblr.com
> 
> (Thank you to the loyal readers. I promise it gets better from here!)


	6. January 1, 1927

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things begin to coalesce. Closing argument are made. A lot of things get set on fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graves has a nightmare with violent and sexual stuff described, I hope, non-explicitly. But it's a doozy of a bad dream, so consider yourselves warned.

A few floors below the Presidential Suite, Seraphina Picquery eats dinner before she attends a party to celebrate the new year. She does not feel festive, but it’s not optional. 

Aurors interrupt her, telling her they need her to come upstairs.

“It’s Graves,” they say.

For a moment, Seraphina thinks the worst has happened. She feels certain the year has one last blow to land against her before it’s done. She gets to her feet without a word and clutches her wand in her fist, swearing silently on the bones of her ancestors that if Percival is dead she won’t let Grindelwald leave her borders alive. The Ministry of Magic can start a war with her, personally, if they want to.

As she heads up the few floors to Percival, the Woolworth Building floods with terrible cold. 

Outside, it’s the day before a holiday. The weather has been unusually mild for the end of December. Now, the wind rattles the windows of the Woolworth Building until one cracks. Then it smashes open from the inside.

In the winter, what’s one more cold gust of wind? What’s one more smoky cloud? What’s one more spot of darkness in a city at night?

Hours later, just shy of the start of the new year, Tina Goldstein is fast asleep.

She wouldn’t be out celebrating anyway, even if there wasn’t the trial and Credence and Newt and everything that’s happened in the last month. If it’s not for an investigation, she doesn’t see the point of wearing an itchy dress and drinking shots of gigglewater with a bunch of people who don’t really like her. She’s not Queenie, and even Queenie… Well, Tina doesn’t need to be able to read her sister’s mind to know she would rather be home sleeping. But she goes out anyway.

“Gotta celebrate what we can,” she’d said, kissing Tina’s cheek before heading out the door in a shimmer of lavender.

Tina wants to celebrate surviving 1926 by sleeping. She might even stay in bed until nine tomorrow, she thinks before she falls asleep.

Just before midnight, Tina snaps awake with her wand already in her hand. She doesn’t even know what she heard, but she races out of her bedroom ready to murder Gellert Grindelwald himself if that’s what woke her.

Or possibly Newt Scamander, if it was some kind of creature escaping (again).

Instead, she finds a massive, seething darkness filling her apartment. Tina lowers her hand and takes a careful step forward. Cold slices right through her thin pajamas and down to her bones. She breaks out in gooseflesh, then shivers.

“Credence?” she says, very softly. 

Like smoke, the Obscurus rises to the ceiling. It gathers like rain clouds before pouring back down. She blinks and, with the light from outdoors, she thinks maybe the darkness is concentrating near the window in the sitting room.

Really, it’s impossible to say for sure.

Tina steps forward and catches a shard of glass in her bare foot. She hisses at the pain. The Obscurus roars.

“Credence,” she says, softly. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

She steps forward again and gets another piece of glass in her other foot. But it’s nothing, really, it’s nothing. An auror is trained to withstand even the Cruciatus Curse. What’s a bit of broken glass in her feet compared to that?

“It’s okay, Credence,” she says. “It’s okay.”

The darkness ties itself in knots.

Little by little, Tina Goldstein’s sitting room reveals itself. The wallpaper looks like it’s been clawed by animals. The lamps are smashed. Upholstery, varnish and magazines lay in ruin.

Pieces of broken glass cover the floor and hang suspended in the air like snowflakes. The winter wind floods the room.

Tina can’t stop shaking as she kneels down and puts her arms out around the Obscurus on the floor, around Credence.

She hears him crying before she feels anything at all, then there’s wetness on her shoulder like melted snow. Very gradually, there’s weight. There’s substance. There’s a wool jacket beneath Tina’s palms and warmth against her shoulder. Ragged, wet breaths go right through the silk of her pajamas.

“It’s okay,” she says, moving her hands against Credence’s back. “Shhh, it’s okay.”

At the sound of footsteps, both of them tense. 

Tina looks over her shoulder, but it’s only Newt.

He looks at them with his eyes a little wide and his wand in his hand. Tina’s wand is against Credence’s shoulder, something that would have been unimaginable weeks ago.

“Merlin’s beard,” Newt says, in a very small voice.

“It’s okay,” Tina says, like a reflex at this point.

“I… have to disagree,” Newt says. “At least, it doesn’t appear to be okay.”

“Could you…” Tina says. “The window.”

Newt waves his wand and the glass pulls itself off the ground and puts itself back together like a jigsaw puzzle. He fixes the wallpaper, the lamps, the scratched furniture. Tina sets her open palm against the back of Credence’s head and holds him against her shoulder as he sobs.

When he quiets, she tightens her arms around him and rests her head against his shoulder. His jacket smells like brick dust, wet wool, and blood. But she breathes in deep.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs.

When Credence starts to pull away, Tina lets him go. They look at each other.

“You’re crying,” Credence says.

“So are you,” Tina says, rubbing her face with her wand hand.

Credence blinks and more tears run down his face. His nose is running, too, and his mouth is wet. Tina will choose to think the damp patch on her shoulder is just tears.

“Are you hungry?” Tina asks, sniffing wetly.

“Yes, ma’am,” Credence says, quietly.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll make something.”

When she stands up, Credence stands with her. His shoulders hunch, and he keeps his chin and his eyes down.

Tina wipes her eyes again, then nods her head sharply and heads for the kitchen. 

“You’re bleeding,” Credence says, his voice very small.

“Oh,” Tina says. She taps her wand against one heel and then the other with a quick whisper of a spell.

“Are you alright?” she asks. “You’re not hurt?”

“No,” Credence answers. He looks at his hands, which are dirty but whole. “I’m not hurt.”

Tina’s mouth twists into an unhappy shape, but she shakes her head and goes to the kitchen. As she goes to check the icebox, Newt and Credence sit at the kitchen table.

“How are you feeling, Credence?” Newt asks, speaking to him as gently as he does his creatures. 

After a long silence, Credence says, “I don’t know, sir.”

“Please,” he says, “call me Newt.”

Tina cracks eggs with her wand, then has to fish out little pieces of shell with another few flicks of her wand. Then there’s the mixing and heating the pan with some butter. She really doesn’t have the touch for this that Queenie does, but she can make passable eggs and toast.

“You can ask me more questions,” Credence says.

“I don’t even know what to ask,” Newt says. “I’m just — I’m grateful that you’re here, that you’re — that you’re alive.”

“Because the other one, the girl, died,” Credence says.

Tina looks over her shoulder at the two of them, Newt with his face turned toward Tina and Credence staring down at the table.

“Yes,” Newt says, choking up.

“And you want to study me,” Credence says. “For your book.”

Newt’s head whips around and he looks at Credence for a sharp moment. “No!”

Tina accidentally pours part of the eggs on the stove instead of in the pan and the spilled eggs go up in flames. She swears.

“Credence, that’s not it at all,” Newt says. “You’re… You’re my friend. I want to help you.”

With most of the eggs in the pan and the rest in the trash with a few flicks of her wand, Tina turns around and looks at Newt and Credence. Newt leans both his elbows on the table as he pitches his body toward Credence, who sits very rigidly with his arms straight at his sides. He keeps his hands curled into fists.

“I don’t have friends,” Credence says. 

Tina puts a hand on her hip.

“Excuse me,” she says.

Both of the men look at her in unison, which is actually pretty disconcerting. 

“I’m your friend,” she says. “I think, after everything, I can count myself that at least.”

Credence drops his eyes to the floor.

“I killed people,” Credence says.

“I’ve killed people,” Tina says, and Credence looks up at her with fear in his eyes.

She pulls a chair away from the table and sits down. The eggs can burn, if they’re going to. She reaches out and offers her hands to Credence, if he wants to take them.

“Magic… Magic is a lot of power,” she says, looking at him even though he’s reluctant to meet her eyes. “It can be used for so many things, but there’s limits. You don’t need magic to hurt someone, even kill them, you know that. People get killed every day in New York. And magic…”

She takes a deep breath and when it comes out again, it’s shaky.

“Magic can’t bring back the dead,” she says. “There are limits.”

Credence looks at her for a second and then lifts his hand and puts it on top of her two hands, as though he’s trying to comfort her. But she takes it. She holds his hand in both of hers and leaves her wand on the table.

“You’re here,” she says. “You’re alive and whole and, Credence, I’m just… I’m so relieved.”

His hand is so cold that she finds herself trying to rub some warmth into it. A little line pops up on his forehead between his eyebrows.

“Alright,” she says, pulling away. “I’ve got to finish cooking before everything burns.”

Very quietly, she hears Newt behind her say, “You know, I was in the war.”

The eggs have burned on one side, so Tina floats the pan over the garbage and just tosses them. It’s a waste of money, really, and she knows that. She’ll get it right this second time. She’ll focus.

She makes an omelette big enough to split into three and put between slices of toasted rye bread. And when she turns back to the table, Newt is trying to encourage Pickett the bowtruckle onto Credence’s open palm.

“No creatures on the dinner table,” Tina says, but then they both just turn and _look_ at her. 

Tina sighs and settles their plates on the table. Pickett goes, happily, back into the front pocket of Newt’s yellow-striped pajamas.

“Do you have anything Credence could wear?” Tina asks.

“Oh, certainly,” Newt says. “Of course.”

“I don’t need anything,” Credence says, putting his hand on the table and not quite picking up his fork. 

“You need to wash the brick dust off your clothes,” Tina says. And the blood, but she doesn’t say that.

Credence looks at his plate without picking up his fork. Then suddenly, in jerky movements, he yanks his jacket back off his shoulders. Something falls free from his waistcoat, or his shirt, and catches the light in in the kitchen.

“Where did you get that?” Newt asks.

Credence holds his jacket in both hands. “From my mother.”

“No,” Newt says, and he points at the pendant hanging from Credence’s bowed neck. “That.”

“Mr. Graves gave it to me,” Credence says.

“I highly doubt that,” Newt tells him.

Tina feels her first bite of egg and toast come back up into the back of her throat, burning with acid and sulfur. Newt and Credence stare at each other, and Tina wonders if she should say anything. What would she say? She doesn’t think Credence would… Would _do_ anything to Newt. 

“Would you give it to me, Credence?” Newt asks, very gently.

“Yes,” Credence says, though he hesitates. He sets his jacket down in his lap and reaches behind his neck for the clasp of a dark chain. He opens it and holds the necklace out to Newt.

Tina expects Newt to take it with his hands, but instead he raises his wand and speaks a powerful disenchantment. The pendant sparks and then bursts into a sickly, green flame. Startled, Credence drops the necklace. Green flames scorch a tidy circle in the Goldstein dining table, which Tina and Queenie inherited from their parents.

But Tina’s glad to see the necklace go.

“Was that…” she starts to ask.

“Yes,” Newt says. “I suspect he was using it as a means of tracking Credence.”

Tina feels ill.

“I’m sorry,” Credence says, staring at the scorched table. “I didn’t know.”

And just as Tina’s about to tell him that they didn’t expect him to know anything, he says, “He told me I would have to touch it, then he would come.”

“Well, he’s in a cell somewhere,” Tina says. “He can’t get to you now.”

“But you can never be too cautious,” Newt tells him. “Do you know what we’re saying?”

“I’ve been attending the trial,” Credence says, picking up his fork and holding it tightly in one hand. “I know about the man who pretended to be Mr. Graves.”

“He’s incredibly dangerous,” Newt says, his shoulders tensing up toward his ears. 

Credence avoids looking at anyone, or even at his food. He holds his fork with the tines against the rim of his plate.

“I’m dangerous,” Credence says, in a tone that Tina really doesn’t like.

“We’re all dangerous,” she says. “Now, can we please eat, before the food gets cold? I don’t want to have to cook again.”

Credence crunches through toast with the side of his fork so quickly that Tina feels bad for being harsh. She really just meant her tone of voice at Newt, but of course it’s Credence who takes his first bite as though it’s a punishment.

But then he chews. And chews. His face turns toward Tina and she watches him swallow. His eyes become very wide, very open.

“This is…” She waits for him to say something more, but he just looks at her for a long moment and then looks back at his plate and takes a second bite.

“Thank you?” Tina says, uncertain. “It’s just an omelette.”

“Wait until you try the bagels,” Newt says.

“Wait until you try anything that Queenie’s going to make you,” Tina says, taking another bite of her own food.

After that, Credence is totally silent and completely focused on his food. He doesn’t rush his food, the way Tina definitely would if she hadn’t had a tongue to taste with for days on end. He uses a knife and fork for every crumb. He savors it.

Then, Tina makes sure to get Credence’s jacket and the rest of his clothes from him. He gives up his jacket, vest and tie easily. But after that, he fidgets and holds his fingers against the buttons of his suspenders.

“Pajamas,” Tina says, suddenly.

Newt responds to a sharp look by ducking his head and admitting he only owns one pair, which, realistically, Tina already knew. So she opens the cedar chest under her bed and digs out a set in blue flannelette pajamas that once belonged to her father, and which she had simply never been able to part with. The cedar chest is very, very big inside. And they’d kept so much else.

Seeing them brings something hot to Tina’s eyes.

She’s thinking of nightmares and glasses of water in the night. A hand on the top of her head and a voice saying, “You’re very brave, _zeisele_ , now go back to sleep.” 

“Here,” she says, handing them to Credence.

Then Credence disappears into the spare bedroom and comes back a minute later in pajamas and bare feet. The pajamas fit loosely on his shoulders and hang over his palms.

“Oh,” Newt says. “I have some socks you can borrow.”

He disappears into his suitcase and comes back with a pair of wool socks with badgers on them. Credence holds both socks in his hands in the kitchen, touching the badgers with his thumbs. The corner of his mouth twitches, which isn’t a proper smile. But it’s something.

And he should be warm, Tina thinks. Not that it’s cold in the apartment.

“There’s another bed in the guest room,” Tina says, though she doesn’t know now if she could go back to sleep.

“Well, really, I’ve been sleeping in my suitcase,” Newt says. “Mostly.”

Tina frowns.

“Actually, would you like to see?” Newt asks. “I know you’ve... Well, I can’t say you’ve snuck in. You’re allowed. But…”

Credence and Newt look at each other and the silence stretches out between them. 

“Would you like to see Newt’s creatures?” Tina asks. “A lot of them will be asleep, but some of the really cute ones are nocturnal.”

“Really cute?” Newt says, but she’s not going to acknowledge that.

“Yes,” Credence says. “I think I would like that.”

As soon as they’re down the ladder in the suitcase, Tina regrets not making coffee. She’s so tired. She finds somewhere comfortable to sit — a fake rock and a patch of grass.

She can’t really hear what Newt is saying to Credence, but he moves his hands when he talks. They don’t look at each other, but the shapes they make have her smiling groggily. All long limbs and bad posture, she thinks, like a pair of marionettes.

It’s so good to see Credence.

Until something touches her shoulder and she wakes up. First, she realizes that she fell asleep sitting on a fake rock. Second, she realizes that Credence is only a few inches away, with his hand poised near her shoulder. His hands are _so cold_. 

“I’m awake,” Tina says. 

“Newt wondered if you would like a cup of tea,” Credence says. He’s not meeting her eyes and Tina automatically touches the buttons of her pajamas, to make sure she’s decent.

“That sounds —” Tina yawns. “I’m sorry, Credence. Yes, tea, that would be lovely.”

She gets up very stiffly and walks beside Credence to the little shed Newt uses as a library, a laboratory, a bedroom, and, apparently, a kitchen. A little kettle on single flame burner already whistles happily.

“Tina!” Newt says. “Good of you to join us. Did you know Credence has never had tea?”

How and why is he so energetic? Tina stifles another yawn.

“I’m afraid there’s not many places to sit,” Newt says. “I don’t usually have company. Actually, I never have company. It’s only been you all — and, well, Jacob.”

“Cream and sugar?” Newt asks.

“No, thank you,” Tina says.

But Credence says, “Yes, please, sir.”

Newt makes a stiff smile. “Alright then.”

The tea is too hot to drink right away, so Tina holds it in her hands and breathes it in. Tea has such a different aroma from the bitter coffee jolt she’s used to, but it’s sort of flowery and nice. She watches Credence out of the corner of her eye, and notices Newt doing the same. 

Credence holds his cup very delicately and waits for Newt to take a sip from his tea, before he’ll taste his own.

He closes his eyes as he sips. Then opens them slowly, still holding the cup against his mouth.

There’s a quiet anticipation, then, or Tina imagines there is. And Credence seems rather oblivious. He takes another sip.

Then he lowers his cup and says, “Thank you.”

“Do ya like it?” Tina asks.

Credence nods his head. “I do. I thought it would be like coffee, with the cream and sugar. But it’s not so strong.”

Tina doubts Credence was drinking coffee in the Barebone household, so she’s left to wonder… Well, she knows now, doesn’t she? Still, it’s strange to imagine Mr. Graves — the real one — buying Credence cups of coffee from a No-Maj street cart. 

“There’s no trial tomorrow,” Tina says. “And I don’t have work, ‘cause of the holiday.”

“That’s good,” Newt says. “What holiday?”

“New Year’s,” Tina says.

“Oh, yes, of course,” he says. “It’s the new year then?”

“Yes.”

“Happy new year, then, to both of you!” Newt looks at his tea and takes a long swallow.

“Happy new year,” Tina says.

“May it be a blessed one,” Credence says, which makes Tina smile a little.

“It already is,” she thinks. Instead of saying anything, she yawns again and ends up apologizing.

“What should we do for the holiday?” she asks.

“I think you should get some rest,” Newt says. “I mean…”

“I know what you mean,” Tina says. “And I will, obviously.”

Newt won’t meet her eyes, so she looks over at Credence instead. “What would you like to do today, Credence?”

But, of course, Credence won’t look her in the eye either. But at least he’s looking at her from the corner of his eyes. After a long moment, he turns his face and meets her gaze.

“I’d like to learn more about magic,” Credence says. “May I?”

“Oh! Absolutely!” Newt says. “We should see what you can do, and what you’d like to know how to do.”

It seems like a bad idea, but Tina won’t say no.

At the sound of someone clattering down the ladder, all three of them turn and look. Tina half stands up with her tea sloshing over the edge of her teacup. But it’s only Queenie, still dressed to the nines in her lavender gown.

“Did you latch it properly?” Newt calls out to her from the window.

“Yeah!” she yells. “What do I look like? An idiot?”

“Can’t have the Niffler running around Mrs. Esposito’s building,” Queenie says, loud enough to be heard. “Tina would throw a fit.”

Tina frowns at her sister. She’s wearing her pajamas that she just spilled tea on, and Queenie looks like a vision of beauty and booze. 

“It’s like four in the mornin’ and none a’ yous was in the house,” Queenie says. “But I knew yous couldn’t a’ gone out, cause it’s you, so I thought I’d check —”

Queenie gets close enough to see them coming out the door of Newt’s little shed.

She takes off running and Tina watches her stumble and lose a shoe, but it doesn’t stop her. Her curls bounce out of place and she grins wide, laughing as she runs. She doesn’t even say anything or slow down, just throws her arms around Credence’s neck. His look of wide-eyed horror gets lost somewhat in Queenie’s hair.

She lets him go because he doesn’t do anything to support her and she’s up on the ball of one foot with her arms practically around his head. But she’s hugging him again when she puts her bare heels back on the ground.

“Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes,” she says. 

His hand shaking a little, Credence puts his arm around Queenie. His palm touches her bare back. She pulls back, gently, but reaches up and pats the side of his face. He flinches.

“We’ll talk about it when you want to,” she says. “Or when you gotta. Glad these two are treating you well.”

“What are we talking about?” Tina asks. “Or, not talking about?”

“Why Credence is here,” Queenie says. “Can I get a cuppa tea, too? Cream, no sugar.”

She bats her eyelashes at Newt and tries to tuck a curl behind her ear without much luck. He scurries back up the steps to get her one. Then Queenie gives Tina a sharp look while she flicks her wand to get the tea stain off Tina’s pajamas.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Thank _you_ ,” Queenie says. 

“It’s so weird having somebody else bring lil’ ol’ me a drink,” Queenie says to Newt. “Usually I’m the one with the tray walkin’ all over Woolworth.”

She drinks her tea happily, while Tina kind of grimaces around the last cold swallow in her cup. 

“I’m happy to do that,” Queenie says, waving her hand at Credence. “Only been lookin’ forward to showin’ you for weeks. But you don’t want me showin’ you around the kitchen in my state, I’d likely turn somethin’ into a frog.”

Credence barely seems to react.

“I’m kidding, honey!” Queenie says, touching his arm. 

“Are these daddy’s pajamas?” she asks, holding onto Credence’s upper arm. “Teenie?”

“Yes,” Tina says, unsure whether she made a mistake. “He needed something to wear.”

“That’s so sweet, Teenie,” she says.

“Thank you, Tina,” Credence says. “Queenie.”

“You don’t gotta thank me,” Queenie says. “I haven’t even done nothin’ yet.”

She leans against him slightly to stay steady and Tina chews on the inside of her lip. 

“You’re welcome,” she says, eventually. 

“I think!” Queenie says, very loudly, after Newt brings her a cup of tea she can’t hold steady. “We should all go to bed. Everybody’s had lots of New Year’s excitement, but I’m outta gas.”

“What d’ya think, Mr. Barebone?” Queenie asks, then she laughs and sips her tea. 

“You seem a bit intoxicated,” Credence says. 

Queenie leans her head against him. “You are correct, sir.”

“You can call me Credence,” he says. “I prefer it.”

She looks up at him and Tina’s surprised to find that Credence looks down to meet her eye.

“Cause we’re friends?” Queenie asks. “That’s so sweet, Credence. You’re… Well, you’re just a good egg.”

And then she yawns into her tea, and Tina yawns because Queenie’s yawning. And then Newt turns away and yawns into his elbow. Credence is the last to catch it, but even he yawns, hiding it behind one big hand.

“Alright, you’re going to bed,” Tina says. “All of you.”

Newt cleans their tea cups and takes them away. And Tina doesn’t try to drag him out of his own suitcase, but she makes sure Queenie goes up the ladder between herself and Credence, in case she falls.

“I forgot my shoes,” she says, standing in the guest bedroom.

“You can get ‘em in the morning,” Tina says, guiding her sister by the shoulders.

“But it _is_ morning, Teenie,” she says. 

She gets her sister into their bedroom and uses her wand to get Queenie’s dress and costume jewelry off. It all floats back into place while Queenie lays in bed and kicks her feet.

Sometimes, Tina wonders how No-Majs even do it. 

“You’re so happy to see Credence again,” Queenie says. “It’s like a big hug all the time, the best hug. You’re so _happy_.” 

When Tina goes to pull the covers over her sister, there are tears in her eyes.

“Teenie,” she says, cupping Tina’s face in her hands. She’s crying hard now and sniffling.

“What’s wrong?” Tina asks.

“It hurts so bad,” Queenie says, breaking into a sob. 

“What hurts?” Tina asks, looking her sister over for cuts and bruises. “What is it?”

“Everything,” Queenie says. “Everything hurts so much all the time.”

Tina finds herself climbing into her sister’s bed. “Shhh, now, it’s okay.”

Queenie puts her arms around Tina’s neck and cries against her shoulder. They fall asleep like a pair of spoons in the kitchen drawer, like they’re little girls again.

When Queenie wakes up, she’s sober and a bit embarrassed. But there’s no good to being embarrassed around Tina. If anyone understands, anyone at all, it’s Tina.

Tina’s worries fill the apartment with something annoying, but comforting. Like the whine in the pipes down the hall when Queenie turns on the hot water or the weak spring in her favorite chair. Sure, she’d like her sister to worry less, but then everything would be quiet and strange.

And Newt is always thinking too, though he doesn’t worry. He thinks about tracking the weight and growth of an Occamy and whether getting Pickett used to other people might help him be around the other Bowtruckles, like he ought to be. Newt looks out the window and names the pigeons roosting in the building across the street. He also thinks about whether he used the right word to describe the colors of the four known varieties of Fwooper.

Newt thinks about Tina, too, but that’s just as it should be, in Queenie’s opinion. Tina thinks a lot about him, too, even though she pretends like she doesn’t. As if Queenie would be fooled by _that_. 

But Credence Barebone, with all of him in one place again...

Credence holds every thought in his mind as though it’s a razor with no handle. The more he wants to hide a thought from Queenie, the tighter he holds it. 

Even when he’s dreaming — and Queenie thinks he’s still dreaming when she wakes up and puts herself together enough to make breakfast — everything in his head bleeds.

It’s more intense than she thought it would be, the whole of his thoughts. 

What she’d heard before, it was only half of Credence. Queenie guesses that it was the nicer half.

Eventually Tina staggers out of their bedroom with her eyes barely open. She makes coffee with a few flicks of her wand and then sits down at the table to drink it. Tina’s already worrying, and that’s a comfort.

A horrible flare of anger makes Queenie accidentally smash two eggs she was floating through the air toward a bowl.

“Oh well,” she says, and cleans up the mess.

Shortly thereafter, Credence appears in the kitchen holding something behind his back.

“Miss Goldstein,” he says.

“He means you, Tina,” Queenie helpfully adds.

“Good morning, Credence,” Tina says, clutching her coffee.

“Good morning,” Credence says.

Then he says, “I have to tell you something.”

Tina’s eyes open fully and she looks at him. “You can tell me anything, Credence.”

“I destroyed my clothes,” Credence says, and Queenie flinches from the expectation of pain inside him. 

Tina rubs her face. “But you’re dressed?”

Credence ducks his head and presents the thing from behind his back. It’s shreds of dark blue fabric, mostly taken down to threads.

“Oh,” Tina says. “Those clothes.”

“Yes,” Credence says. “I didn’t mean to. I was trying to clean them.”

He’s lying, Queenie knows. He absolutely intended to do it and would have turned the whole pile to ash if he knew how.

Queenie turns her wand at the pile and says, “ _Incendio_.” 

“Not on the table!” Tina squawks. 

She puts the fire out and summons up the dustpan with two different motions.

“Well, I wasn’t going to fix that pile of scraps,” Queenie says. “We can buy him some new clothes.”

“I don’t have any money,” Credence says.

“That’s fine, honey,” she says. “I got a solstice bonus.”

“And I got a reinstatement bonus,” Tina says, smiling to herself. “It was pretty big too.”

“I can’t accept your —”

“Credence, honey, you wanna help with breakfast?” Queenie asks. “I know you can cook a little, and I did say I’d show you all my tricks.”

Credence blinks and his burning shame, his sour anger, and his pain fade behind something bright and curious.

“Do I need a wand?” Credence asks. “Like you?”

“Oh no,” Queenie says, smiling. “I’ve been doing this since I was tall enough to reach the counter and I didn’t get this ol’ thing until I went to school. They didn’t even let us keep ‘em on breaks or nothin’.”

“School?” Credence asks. “A school for witches?”

Queenie looks at her sister and grins like a shark.

“It’s ten o’clock on new year’s, Queenie,” Tina says.

All the same, by the time Newt arrives in his yellow striped pajamas, Queenie has Tina teaching Credence all the words to the Ilvermorny School song.

_ And_ Credence scrubbed a frying pan with salt using magic instead of his hands, though he did offer to do it by hand if that didn’t work. 

“You’ll love this,” Queenie had told him, before she showed him the hand motions her mother taught her to rinse the pan and, then, make it bone dry with the snap of some fingers. 

“Good morning, Newt,” Tina says, feeling embarrassed to be caught singing in her pajamas at the table. She sits up a lot straighter with Newt in the kitchen, and her hand goes to her buttons.

“I had Credence do some simple charms,” Queenie says. “And ya did real good at ‘em, didn’tcha, Credence?”

“Really?” Newt says. “That’s amazing! So you can do wandless magic?”

“Yes,” Credence says. “I also destroyed some clothing.”

“Well, that’s not as good,” Newt says. “But it isn’t bad. We can always fix clothing.”

“Nope,” Queenie says. “Burned it already.”

“Or burn it,” Newt says. “I suppose.”

He blinks and simply goes along with what Queenie says. 

“Show him what you can do,” Queenie says, sending another cast iron pan Credence’s way. 

He must do a good job, because Newt’s mind lights up like the fourth of July. He babbles praise at Credence, who feels proud of himself. At least a little bit.

“It’s only cleaning,” he says.

“An Obscurial, like yourself,” Newt starts.

And the words weigh heavy on Credence — something that makes him feel guilty, but which he still feels like he doesn’t understand. There are so many words like that inside his head, that make him feel sick and wrong even though he doesn’t know what they mean.

“Is generally believed to be in suppression of their magic, so unwilling to use it that it only presents itself in the form of the Obscurus.”

“But I am the Obscurus,” Credence says. 

“Ordinarily I would say no,” Newt says. “The Obscurial and the Obscurus are generally thought to be two separate entities. But I wonder…”

And they distract each other so thoroughly that Queenie can finish making breakfast.

The best part of cooking, really, is being able to feel all the happiness when people eat the food she makes. Queenie eats her own pain perdu and pan-fried eggs with a happy little smile.

“It’s like you’ve never eaten,” she says, looking across the table at Credence.

“Nothing like this,” he says. He thinks so vividly of lumpy, thin cereal that Queenie makes a face.

“Well, if you stick around,” she says. “I’ll teach you how to make this _pain perdu_. It’s French.” 

When Credence smiles at her, his mind finally letting go of his own blade-sharp memories and feelings, Queenie feels nothing but pity for Percival Graves. How could anyone have resisted that smile?

It makes her think of Jacob, though, and her heart sinks even further.

“That would be wonderful,” Credence says. “Thank you.”

So Queenie teaches Credence little spells for using only the magic inside his own two hands, and not the kind that they put into wands these days. They break a few dishes and accidentally singe the ceiling. But whenever Credence feels overwhelmed with fear, Queenie’s quick to pull out her wand and fix it. He looks at the delicate handle of her wand with an envy that could swallow her up if she let it.

Over that weekend, Newt happily gives up a spare set of underwear, two pairs of wool socks, two white shirts, and a pair of khaki pants. He also gives Credence a pair of suspenders that he calls “braces,” and so Credence calls them braces too.

The khaki makes Tina frown, so she gives Credence a black pair of slacks and a matching black waistcoat and jacket. The set looks held together by Queenie’s repairs in not-quite matching black thread, but Credence doesn’t seem to notice.

“I can’t wear a woman’s clothes,” Credence says, at first. 

And he’s so offended and embarrassed, but all Queenie can think about is Newt’s tidy, grey skirt that he’s still using sometimes to sneak in and out of Mrs. Esposito’s building.

She giggles to herself in the sitting room, pretending that it’s over the novel she’s reading.

“Those aren’t,” Tina says. “It’s not women’s clothing.”

Then they sort of look at each other for a long moment before Credence mumbles a thank you and goes off to try things on.

“He thinks you’d look swell in one’a those tuxedos from the Arrow Collar ads,” Queenie says, once he’s out of the room.

Tina gets up and walks away after that. But Credence does look quite nice in black and white.

“I’ll take off work on Monday,” Queenie says. “Take you shopping, and get that shirt fitting proper.”

Credence is about the same height as Newt and Tina, but he’s got wider shoulders than Newt and then all the rest of him is bones. So nothing fits right. Thankfully, Tina’s just a slip of a thing, so her men’s clothing fits Credence best. She even has coats to spare him.

“Do you think I could get a razor?” Credence asks. “When we go shopping.”

“Oh, honey, I’m sure we’ve got a spare razor around here somewhere,” Queenie says.

Then Newt sticks his head in and says, “There’s charms for that kind of thing, I could show you.”

“He ain’t got a wand!” Queenie reminds them both.

Credence thinks of Percival Graves, stripped for a bath, with lather on his face. Really, Queenie should be used to this by now.

“And the charms dry out your skin,” she adds.

“What?” Newt asks, and he touches his own face.

“Plus,” Queenie continues. “Plenty of men think that’s what makes them men — shaving and spitting and all that.”

Credence is still thinking about the naked man in his imagination as Newt explains depilatory charms and offers to cast one on the stubble that’s appeared all along Credence’s jaw. But a couple of well chosen charms turns up a spare safety razor.

“It’s not a women’s razor,” Queenie says, before she hands it over. “It’s just a razor. Now go shave your face.”

The bathroom’s down the hall and, really, Queenie wants to be free of all those thoughts about Mr. Graves as much as Credence does.

When Tina finally comes back — with enough groceries for four people — Queenie tells her that she gave Credence her safety razor.

“That’s fine,” Tina says, as she puts away milk and eggs. “I never use it anyway.”

Newt pretends to be very, very interested in the bagels, but Queenie just ignores him. The novelty of having men in the apartment has started to wear thin.

On Monday, Tina wakes up early. There’s two extra people on her floor who have to use the bathroom. She beats everyone, and comes back in her robe with her hair combed. Credence stands in the kitchen cracking eggs with his hands.

“Not using magic?” Tina asks.

Credence averts his eyes from her robe, as though he hasn’t spent most of the past two days sitting around with both of them in pajamas. Or the many days before that, living in the sitting room. Tina knows what Queenie wears when she’s home alone. And what she wears herself, when she gets the chance.

“I did for the stove,” he says. “But I kept dropping the eggs.”

Tina nods. “I do that too.”

She doesn’t pitch this morning’s Ghost in the trash, because Credence spent the weekend reading old issues they keep lying around. He particularly liked the article about Modesty’s reunion with her mother.

“Today’s the closing arguments in Mr. Graves’ trial,” she says, putting the paper where Credence can get it.

He doesn’t look at her or the paper; he barely even moves and his face has the same blank expression that she remembers from so many New Salem street sermons. 

Tina points her wand at the percolator before she goes to get dressed. 

When she gets back, Credence sits at the kitchen table reading the New York Ghost. Behind him, breakfast is making itself. His fingers rest on the edge of a photo where Percival Graves turns toward the reader with a sharp glare. His arms are shackled behind his back and his heavy brows add a level of menace to his eyes that Tina doesn’t remember.

“That’s probably when he called the press a bunch of vultures,” she says, and Credence pulls his hand away from the paper as though he’s been burned.

Queenie’s in the bath or getting dressed, and Tina doesn’t have her gifts or anything close. So she slips by Credence to pour herself a cup of coffee with a mumbled apology.

She hasn’t mentioned Mr. Graves all weekend, and she’s not sure if she should.

Credence silently turns around and the pan floats off the stove when whatever he’s making is done. A plate settles in front of Tina and another to the left of the newspaper in front of Credence.

“Aw, that’s cute,” Tina says, looking down two pieces of toast with eggs cooked right in the center.

“Thank you,” Credence says.

She eats a couple bites, which are exceptionally buttery, and then tries to say something.

“I’m sure you’ll talk to Queenie if you want, she’s much more approachable,” she starts. “But if you…”

Credence looks at her and he’s capable of such icy stares that Tina feels bad for pressuring him. It’s easier if he’s upset and she can hold and soothe and shush. Queenie was never sullen growing up, but Credence has made an art form of looking morose. It’s kind of impressive. And he’s definitely got his reasons.

“It’s not like you don’t know embarrassing things about me,” Tina says. “And you’re living here. And… I mean, I knew him too.”

She wishes that Credence would meet her eyes, but he’s reading the paper instead. Or at least it looks like he is.

“Not the way you did,” she says. “But…”

“Thank you, Tina,” Credence says.

They finish the rest of their breakfast in silence, with Queenie walking through and calling them a pair of wet blankets.

“You don’t even wear any colors,” she says. “Oh gosh, Credence, we gotta go shopping today.”

“Queenie,” Tina says, but her sister slips out of the kitchen. She knows Queenie can feel her disapproval anyway. It’s not exactly safe to take Credence out into wizarding New York — and she does _not_ want her sister out at No-Maj shops, no matter how much she likes them. But she’ll probably go anyway. She hears them say the words “Macy’s” and “Lord and Taylor,” as she shuts the apartment door. 

Of the four people staying in the Goldstein sisters’ apartment, Tina is the only one who leaves that morning and apparates down Manhattan to the Woolworth Building.

Technically, she doesn’t have to attend the closing arguments. She’s a witness and her role in the trial has ended. She could go to work. But, she does have permission to be here.

And it seems like this is something she should see through to the end.

So she sits by herself on the left side of the court, looking at the other witches and wizards who have decided to see this through with her. To see Mr. Graves, she has to sort of lean back and look around a row of other people’s heads. And even then, he’s in the shadows cast by the court’s overhead lights.

Celestine Vanagandr stands at the center of the court in a grey suit that matches her hair and eyes. She looks like she’s made of steel. The only color on her is a hairpin shaped like a swallow in flight. It flutters its wings when she turns her head to look at the different parts of the court.

“The prosecution would have you believe that Percival Graves conspired with a man he fought against for many years to destroy the very institutions and laws he has spent over two decades defending, as an auror, as the head of MACUSA’s law enforcement, as President Picquery’s Director of Security,” she says. 

“My colleague, Mr. Robowitz, is also asking that you condemn Mr. Graves for a horrible event which occurred while Mr. Graves was imprisoned by a vicious criminal,” she says, gesturing to the prosecution. “He’s asking you to convict Mr. Graves for his relationship with the Obscurial Credence Barebone, arguing that it was in violation of Rappaport’s Law, but then to also convict Mr. Graves for the unspeakable damage the Obscurial caused — damage caused by uncontrollable magic.

“Neither myself nor Mr. Graves has denied that a relationship existed between himself and the Obscurial, nor do we deny the incredible damage done to America’s magical community in these times. It is understandable that MACUSA’s highest court wants someone to be held responsible for this damage, but I ask the court to remember who it was standing at the center of our worst hour.”

Celestine goes quiet for a moment, looking to her left and right to see that she has the court’s full attention.

“Gellert Grindelwald,” she says.

The court hangs in silence.

“A clandestine relationship between MACUSA’s Director of Security and the powerful, vulnerable young wizard he sought to help was too great a temptation for a man who sought revenge upon MACUSA for opposing his moves in Europe as well as a means to bring about war between the magical and non-magical worlds.”

She goes on some more, but Tina feels like she doesn’t need to. Not really. 

And, of course, Samson Robowitz makes a passionate case for how Mr. Graves put the entire city and every wizard in America at risk. Tina can’t disagree with that, really. 

It’s likely that Mr. Graves would agree as well.

But Celestine made a good point: The court can’t exactly make a big deal out of Credence being an Obscurial and then say Mr. Graves violated Rappaport’s Law by… befriending him.

At least that’s how Tina sees it now. And she’s not particularly invested in seeing it any other way. After all, Credence is currently living in her apartment. Much like whatever Mr. Graves had with him, that’s probably less illegal than it is just a bad idea. 

But when has that ever stopped her?

The court adjourns before lunch.

President Picquery stands before all of them and says, “We will inform you all of the decision this court reaches at what time that decision is reached. Until then, this trial is concluded.”

Which means that Tina does have to go to work after all.

And Mr. Graves? Well, he's still in custody.

“Goldstein,” Stevens says. “Long time, no see.”

“Except in the papers,” Hernandez chimes in. “Cute as a button tellin’ everyone how you blasted that Barebone bitch.”

Hernandez slurps her coffee.

“Sorry, I know, _language_ ,” she says, with Stevens glaring at her. He's a foot taller than Graves, but his darkest look simply doesn't compare. 

Hernandez slinks off, but comes back in the late afternoon when Tina’s wrapping up the reports she left days ago.

“Look, Goldstein, I shouldn't be telling you this, but everybody knows Graves ain't coming back,” she says. “Even if Congress don't kill him for what he did, you know he ain’t gonna be our boss ever again. Thought you should know, since everybody else does.”

Tina nods stiffly. “It's understandable.”

“You don't know the half of it,” Hernandez says, leaning her arm against Tina’s desk. “Some wild stuff’s been going on while you've been busy. Our dear old boss trashed the place they're keeping him in for New Year’s.”

Tina feels the blood drain from her face.

Hernandez watches her. “Know anything about that?”

“No, no,” Tina says. “But it's very… Very suspicious, isn't it? Doesn't make him look good.”

“No, it don't,” Hernandez says.

Hernandez stands up straight. “Anyways, it's good to have you back, Goldstein. We should grab lunch sometime.”

After she's gone, Tina feels as though she’s just been interrogated. And there are now far more frightening forces at work than Mary Lou Barebone. She has to keep her head down, or it's not just her head that will be on the line.

At night, long after the sun has set, Tina can go home.

Unable to go anywhere else, Percival Graves paces the rooms they keep him in. Things have been quiet since that night and, as it always is with magic, everything in the Presidential Suite has been set right. Every light bulb and wine glass has been fixed or replaced. It’s as if the ghost of Credence Barebone never visited this place, or existed at all.

Maybe he has lost his mind. Maybe he left it inside the walls of an East Village theater. 

In silence, Percival walks across carpet and hardwood and marble tile. He stops in front of mirrors and inspects his face, which no longer seems like his face at all. His skin remains slack on his bones, a visual sign of how he has been diminished as a man and as a wizard. 

Gellert Grindelwald did this to him; if he is to survive this then he will make sure that man doesn’t.

Oh, he thinks of dying often. He knows, now more than ever, how his mother must have felt when she lost her husband and sons, while Percival was up to his knees and elbows in Europe’s mud and blood. But if he kills himself, he’s only doing Grindelwald a favor. 

Seraphina, too — oh, she would be deeply wounded. But she wouldn’t have to carry the trouble of executing him on her conscience. He wants her to carry that weight. No doubt she does not think of Credence Barebone’s death at all. If Percival were a better man, the man he ought to be, he wouldn’t either. It was necessary. Wasn’t it? Like so many other deaths that came before it.

Percival’s death will, no doubt, be deemed necessary. And they’ll twirl some tender memory from his skull, perhaps Credence’s hand clutching the sleeve of his coat inviting him in for a kiss. That’s a death Percival would walk into with open arms.

But Seraphina would think on his death for the rest of her days, wearing it like an anchor around her heart. He knows that she does this for every injustice that she feels she must pursue. They have known each other so long and so intimately. 

Still, she was fooled by an imposter. So let her feel guilty.

He won’t kill himself. He won’t do anyone the favor.

He walks from the sitting room to the kitchen to the dining table to the study to the bedroom to the bathroom and back into the sitting room. He never stops moving. 

It has been so quiet since — without Credence’s ghost here, it has been so quiet. So quiet that Percival picks up books and plates and candlesticks, carefully weighing them in his hands. He could throw this volume of Aramaic spells at the window with all his strength. It might crack the glass or it might crack the spine of the book. 

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t eat. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t sleep until he falls over from exhaustion.

He paces like a tiger in a zoo. Losing himself within the constraints of his cage. He is angry and knows he’ll attack the first creature foolish enough to free him. But Seraphina would never be so foolish.

If he were president, and he was certainly asked to run in 1924, would he be able to put Seraphina on the stand or in the chair? Yes, probably. After all, he did away with the ghost of Credence Barebone despite himself. 

Would Seraphina ever be so foolish as to fall in for some pretty-faced, young Obscurial? 

No, Percival Graves thinks. That was all him.

It’s almost enough to make him finally throw a plate at the wall.

He silently stalks the suite and thinks of everything he would do to Gellert Grindelwald if he could lay hands on him. It won’t bring Credence Barebone back to life or restore the trust that Percival has lost in everyone who knows him, but it would _feel_ so good. He bites his tongue until he tastes blood. 

He thinks of Newt Scamander, who defended him before a foreign court — not because Percival Graves knew his brother, but simply because there is perhaps some heroic quality in the Scamander blood.

And he thinks, often, of Tina Goldstein.

Tina, oh, Tina. 

How unlucky a girl, to raise her wand against Mary Lou Barebone on the same day, perhaps even in the same hour that Grindelwald visited him wearing the face of Credence Barebone. Percival should have known him immediately by his stride and the breadth of his shoulders and the sharpness of his smile, but he did not. He saw only what he wanted to see.

If Tina Goldstein hadn’t been so rash, he thinks. It’s easier to think her a reckless, young idiot than to look himself in the face and recognize an angry, broken old man. 

He saw a bit of himself in her: An orphan, a good student but not quite the top of her class, quick to finish auror training and throw herself into the work, wanting to be a hero.

She nearly got herself killed.

But she survived — due to that particular Scamander quality, apparently. And, he guesses, her own qualities which have been downplayed in reports for all the usual reasons.

If she had only held off on the heroics until it actually mattered, he thinks. Wouldn’t she have recognized it wasn’t him under his coat and his face? Perhaps not, but surely she would have have noticed Credence was in danger. But she couldn’t, because she got herself _demoted_. 

In the winter of 1914, Percival Graves left his wand in the care of then-Prosecutor Seraphina Picquery and boarded a ship to London, where he enlisted in the very non-magical British Army. His family had, not that long ago, been British after all. 

It all should have gotten him arrested under the International Statute of Secrecy and court-martialed by MACUSA for disobeying a strict non-involvement edict. Instead, he returned home a hero to a magical community ravaged by Dragon Pox and a Congress that desperately needed an experienced, capable wizard to leads its gutted force of aurors.

So no one demoted or fined Percival Graves for breaking the law. After all, he had done the right thing, hadn’t he?

His leg, which the mediwitches tell him was badly broken and may never heal right, hurts less when he’s moving. But his feet ache from pacing miles in his socks. Eventually, he always makes the mistake of sitting down, usually around three o’clock in the morning.

And when Percival Graves sleeps, he dreams. He knows that he’s dreaming, but control of the dream slips through his fingers like water. He stands naked with his feet in a creek that’s warm with sunshine. The water’s so muddy he can’t see his feet and the surface of it glints with sunlight and shadow from the overhanging boughs of trees. The wet heat settles over his shoulders like someone breathing down his neck.

Some little offshoot of one of Savannah’s many surrounding rivers, he thinks. Because he’s never been anywhere else like this except Georgia, once, when Seraphina first left New York and began to thrust her arms elbow-deep into politics.

Not such a bad dream tonight, Percival thinks. Then he feels a mouth against his ear.

“It’s a terrible thing that’s happened isn’t it, Mr. Graves?” Credence Barebone whispers directly into his brain.

He frames Percival’s shoulders with ice-cold hands and presses himself against his naked back. In his dream, Credence has much more than an inch on him and his wool clothes carry New York City’s January cold in them.

“It’s too bad you didn’t notice,” Credence murmurs, drawing his hands up to Percival’s throat, his chin, his lips.

“I’m sorry,” Percival says, and the cold in Credence’s hands snaps down into his lungs through his open mouth.

“Tina noticed, you know, and you didn’t believe her,” Credence says, pressing cold lips against the back of Percival’s neck. “You left a girl my age to do your job for you and now you’re angry. Is it because she was better at it than you were?”

“Yes,” Percival says, putting his hands over Credence’s on his face. He can feel the familiar scars across Credence’s knuckles under his callused palms.

“Some auror you are,” Credence says in a tone that Percival never heard him use, but which he can imagine perfectly. It’s acidic, even venomous.

“Director of Magical Security and you can’t even identify an Obscurial when he puts his tongue in your mouth?” Credence says. His skin is so cold that it burns.

Percival can smell smoke. He tries to turn around in Credence’s arms, but his grip tightens on his face. Nails bite into Percival’s cheek like the nick of a razor. 

“What were you thinking of? All those times we were together, Mr. Graves?” Credence accuses. “It certainly wasn’t my well-being.”

Then he lets go so quickly that Percival fears he’s disappeared. He turns quickly, slowed by the muddy water that’s suddenly up to his knees. 

The Credence in his dream isn’t really Credence, but it feels like Credence, it looks like Credence. It’s the only Credence he has left. There are the familiar clothes and clenched fists, but he doesn’t hunch his shoulders or bow his neck like a body anticipating a blow. He thrusts his broad jaw up and out at Percival like a challenge. He smiles like a cleaving curse slicing through flesh.

In his hands, he holds a branch. Not a branch, a wand: Percival’s wand, ebony and silver. Not a wand, a belt.

“Wait,” Credence says, lifting a hand and placing a finger to his pink lips. “I know what it was.”

Credence drops his belt, then strips off his worn, wool jacket. He unbuttons his waistcoat. He undoes his suspenders. He strips himself as naked as Percival and they stand thigh-deep in murky water.

“It was this, wasn’t it?” Credence says, reaching for Percival’s arm with a cold hand. “It was always this. Too busy thinking about what you’d like to put in my mouth to care about the rest of me.”

They are chest to chest, groin to groin. Credence breathes cold air against his lips and Percival kisses him until he tastes ice at the back of his throat. They are reclining on the bottom of a wooden boat with the boughs of trees hanging overhead, turning everything to a latticework of sunlight and shadow. Credence’s pale, scarred flesh looks half-grey. His eyes are white, only white, as though Percival forgot their color.

“And then you wouldn’t even let me kill you,” Credence says, stretching his body upwards in an arch that lets Percival count every rib. His head tilts back so that Percival can see his throat. He sits astride Percival’s hips and moves like a gently rocking rowboat.

“I thought you would save me,” Credence moans, bracing his hands on Percival’s belly. His hands are cold but his body feels hot, tight, wet, everything perfect and easy about sex in the imagination.

“How could you do this to me?” Credence says, his shoulders shaking. “I trusted you, Mr. Graves. I trusted you.”

His pink mouth opens on a soft whine. Credence pushes his ice-cold hands into Percival’s belly. He bites his lower lip between his teeth and takes hold of Percival’s guts. Credence grabs his beating heart in both hands and pulls. 

Percival has seen enough blood and guts to perfectly imagine the shape and color of his own in Credence’s scarred hands. 

Percival wakes up violently. His hands claw at the sofa. Cold sweat covers his scalp. 

He swallows and his throat feels choked dry.

“Credence,” he croaks, but there’s no one in the suite except himself.

Muscles protest in his back when he sits up, and he can feel the bones in his leg throbbing. Worst of all, his cock rubs hot against his underwear.

Percival puts his head in his hands.

If Seraphina Picquery has him executed this week, he’ll never have his revenge on Grindelwald. But at least, perhaps, Credence will have had his revenge on Percival.

As he bathes, Percival touches himself with mindless purpose. His body sweats, bleeds, oozes. It is only a body after all. The key to Occlumency is control of one’s thoughts; Percival Graves is almost as good at this as dark wizards and professional criminals. 

He doesn’t think of anything when he makes himself come.

He shaves his face and combs his hair. He puts on another suit with no intention of getting more sleep.

At eight o’clock that morning, Seraphina Picquery arrives at his door.

“I thought I would tell you first,” she says. “You’ve been acquitted. Not-guilty votes on every charge.”

“They’ll hang you,” Percival says, a particularly cruel thing to say to her. “The press, the public, they’ll say you’re letting me off easy because of our history.”

“It took five votes,” she says. “I was only one. The decision was unanimous.”

“They’ll say you influenced them,” he says. “Or that I cursed them, or I paid them off.”

“I didn’t realize you’d be so ungrateful to be a free man, Percy,” she says, her eyes as hard as ebony.

“Am I free man, Sera?” he asks. “Or are you going to go put on your gaudiest turban and drag me in front of the auto-quills and charmed cameras again so that no one will mention that you’ve overseen the greatest failure of MACUSA’s secrecy laws in a century?”

“Well, at least you’ll look good in the photographs,” she says. “Won’t you, Percy? You were always better at looking good than being it.”

Then she leaves him, and neither of them is wrong. 

A grand gesture is made of putting Percy at the center of the court and undoing his iron shackles. Flash-bulbs pop. 

It’s all a grand show. The tiger has already leapt at the woman who opened his cage. 

The Wampus cat has two limbs to strike with, Percival reminds himself, and four to flee.

Useful, given that the law says it’s curse-to-kill when one is spotted anywhere it might come into contact with No-Majs.

That afternoon, Percival Graves goes back to a Park Avenue apartment — where Gellert Grindelwald lived while he pretended to be him — with an escort of aurors and a letter in his coat detailing his severance package.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'm on Tumblr at jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s.tumblr.com and I love every single person who comments on my fics


	7. Park Avenue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You’re free now, aren’t you? You can finally do what you want, and you have magic that will let you do almost anything. And, Credence, I know… I always knew you were a good man. You can do good things, if you choose to. But it is always a choice."

Tina Goldstein doesn’t have her sister’s magical gifts, but she’s a skilled investigator. 

Credence doesn’t speak of Percival Graves; instead he goes totally still and silent when Tina even mentions the man. He has already admitted, in rare moments, that he was present for some parts of the trial. Perhaps all of it? 

When he was only a cloud of smoke in her sitting room, he seemed quite distressed that Mr. Graves faced capital charges. Now, he acts as though the results don’t matter to him at all. 

At work, other aurors talk amongst themselves about what Mr. Graves did to the presidential suite the night after he testified. Blowing out every light? Breaking every piece of furniture and china? 

Only Tina knows that Credence Barebone smashed in the window of her sitting room and destroyed her furniture on the same night Mr. Graves supposedly trashed his gilded cage.

Then there’s the mysterious circumstances of Mr. Graves’ sudden and violent re-appearance. It was quite the miracle, really, as MACUSA couldn’t get anything out of Grindelwald that was any use in finding him. Then, suddenly, in the middle of the night, a building explodes in the East Village. If Graves hadn’t been standing right in the midst of it, the scene reads exactly like all the earlier Obscurus-related incidents. 

Tina knows Credence well enough to recognize his work. She’s seen how he can be when upset — from the full, raging power of the Obscurus to his smaller moments of destruction. 

But she also knows that he watched out for a little girl who turned out to be Elizabeth Kemper, and he packs Tina a cold lunch in the morning so she won’t resort to eating hot dogs and stale sandwiches at work. He cares.

The other aurors say that Mr. Graves has returned to his apartment, and the security and surveillance detail has been greatly reduced after a week because the man never leaves the building. He even has someone fetching his groceries for him.

Tina Goldstein isn’t assigned to that detail, but she knows the schedule.

There’s a few hours on Sundays when no one watches the stately Murray Hill building where Percival Graves lives amongst some of New York’s magical elite.

That Sunday, Tina tells Credence she wants to take him out for the day.

“Alright,” he says, not even questioning why or what for.

So they have breakfast and Credence does the dishes with Queenie, gives her his laundry under great duress, and helps Newt feed his magical menagerie. It’s a very normal morning, all in all. 

Tina wears a simple blouse and pants, with a pair of comfortable shoes. And her father’s pocketwatch, of course, hanging around her neck.

“I think we should head out now,” she says, and hands Credence her spare coat.

Even when she takes his hand and pulls him into the alley beside Mrs. Esposito’s brownstone, Credence doesn’t ask her what she’s doing.

“You’ve apparated with Queenie, right?” she asks. “I’m sure she told you not to tell me, but I don’t care.”

“Yes,” Credence says. “When we went shopping.”

“I figured,” Tina says. “So I guess I don’t have to tell you what to do. Just… trust me.”

“Always,” Credence says, which is a little more faith than Tina thinks she deserves.

Tina takes Credence by the arm and pulls him along with her from Chelsea to the other side of Manhattan. 

Since she was last anywhere near Mr. Graves’ building, someone has put a gate up in the alley facing 37th Street. Tina looks at the big, iron gate and swears.

“Damnit.”

“Is this not where you wanted to go?” Credence asks.

“No,” Tina says. “This is the place… Well, it’s a bit of a walk.”

She uses her coat as a shield and discreetly casts an  _alohomora_ on the gate’s big padlock. It pops open, and Credence holds the gate for her. 

“I guess we should lock it behind us,” Tina says.

“I think it would be polite,” Credence says.

So they lock the gate behind them.

“Come on,” Tina says, taking Credence’s arm in her own. “It’s this way.”

After a block, Credence still hasn’t asked where they’re going and Tina starts to fret about her plan, which seemed like a much better idea before they got here. The MACUSA surveillance team has been off-duty for the past ten minutes, according to her watch.

“Aren’t you going to ask where I’m taking you?” Tina asks.

“Should I?” Credence asks. “I do trust you, Miss Tina.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Credence,” she says. “But, uh, actually, you might want to ask.”

Credence gives her a scrutinizing look, with his eyes narrow and very focused.

“Where are we going, then?” he asks.

“To see Mr. Graves,” she says, and Credence stops right there on the sidewalk. Other people have to walk around them, and one woman turns and glares after she passes by. 

“No,” Credence says.

Tina tugs him, with some difficulty, out of the way of foot traffic. Somehow, Credence looks even paler than usual.

“Tina,” he says. “I don’t think we should do this. I don’t think that I should —”

“Trust me,” Tina says, feeling her heart throb inside her chest. “Please, just give it a chance. I know maybe it’s a bad idea, but… You never talk about it, not even with Queenie. And Mr. Graves… Credence, I just don’t know. You’re the one who found him, right?”

“Yes,” Credence says, without meeting Tina’s eyes.

“Then you care about him,” she says.

“He doesn’t care about me,” Credence says, which pulls Tina up short.

“No,” she says. “That… That doesn’t make any sense.”

Mr. Graves said some things, some very unkind things, in his trial. But he also said some very, very kind things. The sort of things that Tina can’t imagine anyone ever saying about her. Nobody, not even Mr. Graves, could say those kinds of things if they didn’t mean it at least a little bit.

Right?

“If you don’t want to see him,” Tina says, “I won’t force you. That’s cruel. But if you _do_ want to see him, then I think you should. 

They stand almost nose-to-nose, making themselves as small as possible on a Midtown sidewalk. Taxis drive by in the streets, honking at the slow-moving delivery cars ahead of them. Everything smells a bit like smoke and urine, but the cold air keeps it from being too strong.

“Do you want to see him?” Tina asks.

“Yes,” Credence says, his voice very small.

“Then come on,” Tina says, and she puts her hand on Credence’s elbow.

The building Mr. Graves lives in towers over Park Avenue, but has an entrance to the side that goes below the street level. This makes it easy for Tina to discreetly touch her wand to the waning moon in the side of the door. Her magic makes the door swing open and she leads Credence into the building.

“Good afternoon, sir and madam,” a painting of a young Cretan nymph says. “I can see you’re not residents. Are you here to see someone today?”

“Yes,” Tina says, while Credence gawks at the painting. “We’d like to visit Mr. Percival Graves in Apartment 602.”

“I’ll have him notified, madam,” the nymph says. “Would you please approach the brass phonograph? Thank you, sir and madam.”

There’s a brass horn without a player attached to it sitting on a stand beside a thriving ficus.

After a minute or two, amazingly, Mr. Graves’ voice comes out of the phonograph. “Who is it?”

“Tina,” she says. “Porpentina Goldstein, sir.”

“Goldstein?” Mr. Graves says. “What are you doing here?”

“I just…” she starts. She looks at Credence, who is wide-eyed and mute.

“I was hoping I could talk to you, sir,” she says.

Silence stretches out for so many seconds. It’s so absolute that Tina can hear her heartbeat. She can hear the rise and fall of Credence’s ribs as he breathes. She hears her watch ticking.

“Alright,” Mr. Graves says. “Come up then.”

A door beside the phonograph swings open and Tina takes Credence’s hand to pull him into the stairwell with her.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Credence says. “You didn’t even tell him that I was with you.”

“It’ll be fine,” Tina says. “What’s the worst that can happen after everything?”

Credence gives her such a dark look that she kind of expects him to turn to smoke and ash right there in the stairwell.

“I’m serious,” she says. “We’ve all been through the worst already, right? All he can do is tell us to leave.”

He doesn’t exactly look happy about this, but Credence still lets Tina lead him up six flights of stairs.

There are only two doors on the sixth floor, and Mr. Graves should be behind door 602.

Tina lifts her hand and knocks.

The door jerks open with a chain on it, only offering her a few inches to see part of Mr. Graves and the dim room behind him. He has deep-set lines beneath his eyes and there’s a week of whiskers on his face.

“Goldstein,” he says. “You’re not alone.”

“Yes, sir,” she says. “I brought a friend of…”

When Tina looks over her shoulder, she finds Credence has his head turned away and one hand lifted to hide his face. She reaches up and takes him by the wrist, pulling his hand away. He flinches. She lets him go.

“I brought a friend of ours,” Tina says, rapidly. 

She looks back at Mr. Graves, who still stands in the gap of his door. He looks past her to Credence with eyes so wide she can see the whole, dark circle of his iris in the bloodshot whites of his eyes. His lips part slightly, surrounded by a nascent beard. Tina realizes that he hasn’t combed his hair.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says, in a voice that wavers slightly at the end of that name.

“Hello,” Credence says.

He’s looking at his feet and holding onto Tina’s coat with one hand now. His other hand hangs in a fist at the end of his stiff arm.

“You’re alive,” Mr. Graves says, his voice rising at the end like a question. His face relaxes then, and Tina isn’t sure she should be looking. What seemed like horror, at first, turns into hope. 

The chain on the door falls open by wordless, wandless magic, and Mr. Graves opens the door wide enough for Tina to see he’s in a half-buttoned shirt and a smoking jacket. He’s not even wearing a belt with his pants or socks with his slippers. She has _never_ seen him in less than a full, three-piece suit. This seems almost like nudity. She can see the grey in his chest hair. She can see his chest hair! 

“Yes,” Credence says, like a breath. 

Mr. Graves leans forward like he’s going to take a step, but then catches himself on the doorframe.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says.

Tina’s heart sinks, and before she can really think about what she’s going to say, she says, “But Mr. Graves!”

“Goldstein,” he says, looking right at her. Tina freezes.

“Tina,” he says, and it doesn’t matter that he’s wearing a dark blue smoking jacket instead of one of his broad-shouldered coats and there’s hair hanging in his face. He looks _disappointed_ in her, and that’s enough to make Tina feel like she’s swallowed her tongue. 

“You shouldn’t have brought him here,” he says. “It was incredibly reckless of you — I’m well aware that my apartment is being monitored. You could be putting Credence in terrible danger.”

“But, but,” Tina starts. She checked the damn surveillance schedule. She _knows_ there’s no one watching right now. She planned this. Why doesn’t Mr. Graves understand? She wouldn’t just put Credence at risk like that! 

“And Credence,” Mr. Graves says.

He jolts so hard that he yanks on the back of Tina’s coat.

“It’s rare to come back from the dead, even for us wizards,” Mr. Graves says. “Don’t waste this opportunity for a new life, your own life.”

A heavy silence settles in and Tina barely dares to blink or breathe.

“You’re free now, aren’t you?” Graves says. “You can finally do what you want, and you have magic that will let you do almost anything. And, Credence, I know… I always knew you were a good man. You can do good things, if you choose to. But it is always a choice.”

Tina looks over her shoulder and watches Credence’s throat move above the collar of his shirt. Even with his head tucked down, his neck is so long. She should really get him a scarf, she thinks.

Also, this really didn’t go the way she had hoped it would.

“Yes, sir,” Credence says.

“I’m…” Mr. Graves begins. “No, forget it. I think you should both go.”

“Yes, sir,” Tina says, feeling like her heart has sunk into her stomach.

“And Goldstein,” he says. “I trust you to do the right thing.”

“I will, sir,” she says, without really feeling it. She thought _this_ was the right thing. If it wasn’t, then she’s not so sure she knows what is. 

Mr. Graves shuts the door in their faces, but Tina and Credence stand in the hall for a long moment after that.

“I think we should go now,” Credence says in a whisper.

“Are you alright?” Tina asks, because she feels devastated and she’s not the one who… cares about Mr. Graves like that.

“No,” Credence says. “But it’s not the worst that can happen.”

Tina wants to laugh at that — or cry, maybe. Instead she leads Credence to the stairs. If both of them have some tears in their eyes, neither of them says anything about it.

“Wanna get hot donuts?” she asks, as they walk back down six flights of stairs.

“That would be nice, I think,” Credence says.

So they walk down Park Avenue, looking at the leafless trees and the cars going up and down the street until they find a cart selling fresh donuts. Tina pays for a whole bunch for them to share, and they eat them all before finding an alley from which to apparate back home.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Why?” Credence asks her. “You were only trying to do something kind for us both. Now he knows I’m not dead, and I know that he's concerned for me. I don't expect more than that.”

“But,” Tina starts to say. Then she looks at Credence, in his borrowed shirt and borrowed coat. Even under new clothes that fit much better, he keeps his shoulders hunched forward. There's a bit of sugar at the corner of his mouth that he catches with his tongue before going back to frowning. His expression seems so guileless and sad.

“Never mind,” she says.

On the following Monday, Tina and Queenie go to work. But Credence doesn't have much to do besides help Newt with his creatures and read Queenie's old spell book from her first year of charm classes at Ilvermorny. It's fairly geared toward wand use, but there's plenty about wandless magic, which is apparently much more common in America.

Tina’s history books say magic was practiced in America for centuries before the first wands arrived with English witches. Before Dutch wizards first arrived in New York, apparently the tribes who lived here didn't distinguish between witches and No-Majs, as Tina calls them, or muggles, as Newt says.

Credence spends a full day carting wheelbarrows of feed and feces for Newt, simply thinking about a New York without streets and brownstones where some people just had magic and some people just didn't. But they all lived together. He imagines them naked and with feathers in their hair, which might not be realistic, but Credence doesn't have any illustrations. He could imagine them in proper shirts and dresses, but why not imagine them free and sky-clad? It would get cold, but they had magic, he thinks, so they wouldn’t need clothes, any of them.

He also wonders what these people were named. What language did they speak? What did they eat? Did they marry or believe in God? Were they _heathens_? The idea sort of excites him, the way magic does. It also horrifies him. Credence isn’t sure he knows the difference between horror and excitement; both make his heart pound. Often as of late, for no reason, he thinks he’s going to vomit but he doesn’t. Is that fear? Is that happiness? 

“Do you know anything about magic in America before there were wands?” Credence asks Newt while they make a lunch of the five-bean soup that Credence made on Sunday night.

“Not particularly,” Newt says, slurping his soup in a way that would have offended Chastity. “Though I could tell you a bit about North American Horned Serpents compared to the European Basilisk.”

“Are they very similar?” Credence asks.

“Oh they look quite similar,” Newt says. “But, in fact, could not be more differing in their qualities. The Horned Serpent rather suffered for being mistaken for the very aggressive basilisk when European wizards first arrived here.”

Credence quietly eats his soup and watches Newt as he speaks animatedly about giant serpents.

Everything he says sounds like a make-believe story, but Credence trusts that it's absolute truth. If magic is real, if he can still be alive after he was blown to pieces, then why not a giant snake with horns that ring when there’s danger?

But Newt doesn't know much about America’s witches before they had wands.

So he asks Tina.

“I'm sorry, Credence,” she says. “I don't know much. There was a pair of twins in my house at Ilvermorny whose family was moved to Minnesota, but they said they were originally from out here — but upstate, near the falls. They got an invitation to Canada’s school, but they picked Ilvermorny.”

All of it fascinates Credence.

“They were Chippewa,” Tina says. “I forget what their family name was, but I remember the girl, Spring Beauty, which is such a lovely name but she didn't ever tell us what it really was — she said we’d never be able to pronounce it right, and that seemed kind of presumptuous. I mean we were practically speaking Latin all day and she thought we wouldn't try to say her name correctly? Maybe she was right, I don't know. Anyway, she did a report on the Prophecy of Seven Fires for our Advanced Divination class.”

“What's that?” Credence asks.

Tina tells him, with a lot of secondary comments about how she's not sure she's remembering it exactly correct. But it's more than Credence knew before.

“I'll send a note to Director Proudfoot’s secretary, if I can remember her name,” Tina says. “She had a side project recording some of the native prophecies before the seers died. It's how Proudfoot learned about her and then picked her for a job with MACUSA.”

“Thank you,” Credence says, as though any of those things mean anything to him.

Queenie knows even less, or so she claims.

“I barely remember my history of American magic classes,” she says. “Though momma told us that our people — Jews, not witches — practiced magic for thousands of years. And you don't hear about no magic wands in the Torah.”

“What's that?” Credence asks.

“Oh, it's the Bible,” she tells him. “Sorta.”

“The rod of Moses,” Credence says, after a moment of reflection. “Through which the prophet performed miracles of the Lord.”

Queenie blinks. “Well damn, it does got magic wands.”

She grins at him, then, and says he’s very clever, though he doesn’t believe it. She taps him on the side of his arm and asks, “What, do you think I’m lyin’ to you then?”

Later, she tells him that she remembers someone telling her that Legilimens existed in America before Europeans came. And Animagus, which are people who can turn into animals.

Under it all, Credence wonders what Mr. Graves would be able to tell him. He had a very important job and he must have gone to school for a long time, unlike Credence who never went to school and had learned to read on the good book. Mr. Graves must have gone to a magic school, like Ilvermorny or Hogwarts, and maybe a magic college. After all, he had worked for the president, so he must know a lot.

On Wednesday, Newt asks, “Would you like to come to London with me, Credence?” 

All four of them are eating dinner and Credence feels his mouth go dry around a bite of noodle kugel, which is otherwise exceptionally delicious.

“That's not a bad idea,” Tina says. “You have a much more relaxed attitude about magic over there. And no one would know Credence.”

“I'm not sure how much more relaxed we are,” Newt says.

Credence has never left New York City.

But he could now, couldn’t he?

Newt’s asking him if he would like to leave and go across an ocean to a new city in a new country. 

Of all things, Credence thinks about Mr. Graves telling him that he’s a free man.

“You can finally do what you want,” he’d said. What does Credence want?

“I’ll consider it,” Credence says. “Thank you very much for inviting me. It means very much.”

He worries that Newt won’t believe him, that he’ll think Credence is brushing off his generous offer. He doesn’t want Newt to think that at all, but Credence doesn’t know what more he can say.

Newt nods his head, though, and says, “Please do consider it.”

That night, Credence lies awake, listening to the sounds of the cars in the street outside and the pipes rattling in the far wall. He looks at Newt’s suitcase on the floor for a long time before he gets out of bed and goes to find the coat he has been wearing lately, which is actually Tina’s coat. He also puts his shoes on over Newt’s very comfortable socks. He didn’t destroy his shoes, because shoes are expensive and he’s had these for a very long time and no one ever beat him with them.

Fully dressed, in his borrowed pajamas and borrowed coat and borrowed socks, Credence opens Newt’s suitcase and carefully climbs inside. He makes sure to latch it and then push slightly on the top to make sure that the Niffler can’t try to squeeze out.

He hopes he doesn’t wake Newt.

He also hopes he doesn’t wake any creatures that might follow him. He isn’t scared anymore, and he does greatly enjoy learning about both the creatures that Newt keeps with him as well as the many that he’s seen and written about. But he’ll have to shoo away the mooncalves if they start following him.

If he went to London, he would greatly miss Queenie and Tina. Credence feels perfectly happy to cook for them and teach himself new ways to use his magic by copying what he reads in their schoolbooks. But they have their own lives. 

And what could Credence make for himself in New York City? His family is all gone, either because he killed them or because they died when he was too young to remember. He doesn’t remember being anyone but Credence Barebone. And, for all intents and purposes, Credence Barebone died on the 7th of December, 1926, on the platform of the Civic Center station.

“Hello,” he says, his shoes crunching against magical snow. It’s just as cold as real snow.

“I don’t know if you can understand me like this. Do you understand any English?”

The Obscurus moves within its container like the water in a snowglobe. When Credence puts his hands out, he can draw it to him with magic. He doesn’t know what Newt feels when he touches it, if he does at all. He created the magic that holds this Obscurus on earth.

Credence thinks of Percival Graves, who sent him away when he thought he was a ghost, who sent him away again when he knew he wasn’t a ghost, who told him things like “I loved you” and “I always knew you were a good man” as though he was not the only person who had ever said those words to him.

When he touches the magic that holds the Obscurus, Credence feels fire against his palms. He feels such terrible pain that tears come to his eyes. He weeps until ice gathers on his eyelashes and he can’t breathe through his nose. He is very quiet, almost totally silent.

He wouldn’t want to wake up Newt.

After a while, Credence lets go. He looks at his hands, which are ridged and grooved with scars and callouses. He looks at his hands for a long time. Then he rubs the frost from his burning eyes and tries to warm up his nose and cheeks.

What does he _want_ to do? He wants to make sure there’s never another Obscurus in the whole world ever again. 

But that’s far too ambitious, Credence knows. So he would settle for learning all that he can about magic and, perhaps, helping others learn. 

He would like to see all the creatures that Newt talks about. 

He would like to see the world and all the ways that people practice magic in it. 

He would like to help children, make sure that no one hurts them and that they have enough to eat.

If he is completely honest, he would like to see Mr. Graves. He would like to write to him the way he had before Mr. Graves turned into someone else, someone who hurt him and who wanted him to hurt other people. He would like to know for certain that wasn’t _really_ Mr. Graves. 

“Thank you,” Credence says, to the Obscurus who may not even be able to understand him. But he thinks she does.

Then he dusts the snow off his borrowed coat and climbs out of Newt’s suitcase. He puts his shoes and coat away, then goes back to bed in his borrowed pajamas and socks.

Over breakfast on Thursday, Credence tells Newt that he would like to go to London, “If the offer is still available.”

Newt grins and then everyone is very excitedly talking about what Credence, supposedly, will be able to do in England.

“I travel quite a lot for my research,” Newt says. “You could come with me.”

“I would like that,” Credence says. “And I could… Edit your manuscript?”

“Would you?” Newt asks.

“But the spellings are different,” Tina says. “Aren’t they?”

Then Tina and Queenie go off to work together, and Newt takes Credence into his suitcase to excitedly plan how Credence might stay with him.

“I could expand my shed a bit more, but it’s always tricky when layering too many expansion charms within other expansion charms,” he says. “But there’s the rest of the case, if you don’t mind it. I have plenty of canvas left over to give you a room of your own.”

“I’ve never had my own room,” Credence admits. 

“Well,” Newt says. “Now you shall!”

And they work until they have both soaked through their underwear and shirts with sweat by putting up poles and hanging canvas.

“I’m going to bathe,” Credence says.

“Alright,” Newt says. “I’ll be out of your way.”

When Credence has rinsed the sweat off and put on fresh clothes, he makes lunch for both of them and takes it into the suitcase for Newt. 

“I think I am going to go shopping,” Credence says. 

“I’ll go with you,” Newt says. 

“Thank you very much,” Credence says. “But I don’t wish to disturb your work. I’ve already occupied your whole morning, and you said you were going to work on separating the qualities of the Swooping Evil’s venom today.”

“Did I?” Newt says. “I suppose I did, but I don’t mind spending time with you, Credence, it’s not a disruption.”

“I won’t be gone for long,” Credence says. “I promise.”

“If you got lost, Tina would never forgive me,” Newt says.

“I won’t get lost,” Credence says. “I’ve lived in New York my whole life.”

“Well, yes,” Newt says. “I suppose.”

“I can wait until later in the week,” Credence says. “Perhaps I can spend the afternoon reading about divination.”

“No,” Newt says. “You should go — shopping, was it? You’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, after all.”

Credence smiles a bit. He feels a bit guilty for abusing Newt’s trust, which the man places so easily in him. But he could have simply told him he would study divination and then gone out the fire escape anyway. This, at least, seems slightly more honest.

So Credence puts Tina’s coat on over the clothes that he bought with Queenie, a pink shirt and grey waistcoat and matching jacket. His pants have narrow grey pinstripes. Of course, he only has the same pair of shoes and Newt’s wool socks. But Credence looks himself over in Queenie’s standing mirror and feels absolutely vain.

He takes a deep breath in and then carefully releases it.

Then he goes out the front door, moving so quietly down the stairs he probably doesn’t even need the silencing charms he put on his shoes. But they reassure him. 

Credence does not know how to apparate yet. Apparently it’s rather dangerous to do without a wand. Tina spoke of something called “splinching,” which Credence might survive. But which he would rather not experience.

What Credence can do is walk. The building where Percival Graves lives is ten blocks north and on the other side of Manhattan from the Goldstein sister’s apartment. But he has walked further when he had no subway tokens. If he had money now, he would probably take the subway. 

But he can always walk.

On the sidewalk, life is exactly as Credence remembers it. People bump into him without even looking. He smells urine and rotting food and used cooking oil, plus so much exhaust from taxis and cars and vans. He must pass a hundred carts selling food, but he smartly ate before leaving the Goldsteins’ place.

He reflects on memories of his fingers touching Mr. Graves’ hands as he offered him cups of coffee and bags of roasted nuts. It makes Credence feel something that’s rather like hunger, but also quite different. It comes from deep inside his belly all the same.

By the time he reaches Park Avenue, his hands are numb in his coat pockets and his feet hurt. He rubs his hands together and then cups them over his face and breathes until he can feel his nose. Tina’s coat makes a world of difference, however, and Credence doesn’t think he has ever walked this far in January without losing the feeling right up to his shoulders. He’s used to being cold in the winter.

He walks down the stairs and feels his stomach knot with tension. He’s not sure if the stone shaped like a crescent moon will do for him what it did for Tina. But he has to _try_. 

Credence thinks about magic: moving curls of darkness between his fingers, scrubbing salt around in an iron pan, coaxing the leather of his shoes not to squeal.

“Please open,” Credence thinks, and puts his hand on the stone.

When the door opens, he feels quite delighted with himself. He’s becoming a very prideful creature after surviving death.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the painting of the half-naked girl says. Credence makes sure to look at her face and not at her naked breast.

“You’ve visited before, haven’t you?” she asks.

“Yes, I have,” he says.

“I apologize, sir, but I don’t recall your name,” the painting says. “And I cannot call upon any of the residents without a direct request.”

“I’m Credence, ma’am,” he says. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I must agree, sir,” the painting says. “It’s rare to see such a handsome face twice in this place. Most of the residents are much older than you, sir. Though not as old as I am.”

“How old are you?” he asks.

“A lady never tells,” the painting says, putting an oil paint hand against her pink mouth with a giggle.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he says. “That was rude of me.”

“It’s quite alright, sir, you’re only curious,” she says. “Now, who are you visiting today?”

“I would like to see Mr. Percival Graves in Apartment 602, ma’am,” Credence says. “That’s the same man I visited before.”

The painting winks at him. “He’s a lucky man. Let me ring him for you, Mr. Credence.”

Talking to the painting proves both strange and heartening as Credence stands beside the strange phonograph trumpet and waits. 

“Who is it?” Mr. Graves’ voice says from the great brass horn.

“Hello,” Credence says. “It’s Credence.”

He breathes to keep himself calm. It would be terribly rude for him to get upset here, after he’s introduced himself to the painting.

“Go away,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence swallows the lump in his throat. “No.”

In her painting, the half-naked woman leans against a rock on the shore of her river. She watches Credence with interest.

“Has he hung up on me?” Credence asks her. “I’m not sure how this works.”

“I’m still here,” Mr. Graves says. “But you have to go.”

“No,” Credence says. “I won’t leave until you come down and speak with me.”

In his coat pockets, his hands shake. He’s become prideful _and_ arrogant. Also, he might vomit. 

Credence looks at the painting, which looks back at him. Before he can ask if she has any power to throw him out, Mr. Graves says, “Fine.”

Credence sighs with relief, though his hands still shake.

“But you’ll have to wait.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Graves,” Credence says.

“I had hoped that would go better,” the painting says. “You’re very handsome, after all, and Mr. Percival gets so few visitors.”

Credence blinks. Should the painting be telling him this?

“My name is Idaea,” she says. “I can keep you company until Mr. Percival comes for you.

Rather than ask the painting, Idaea, about Mr. Graves — as tempting as it is — Credence asks her about the weather. 

“My favorite season is spring,” Idaea says. “I love when the residents bring in fresh flowers, even just when they track flower petals in on their shoes.”

“I like spring as well,” Credence tells her. “It’s not too hot or cold, and I don’t mind the rain at all.”

“I like to watch the rain run down the stairs from the window in the door,” Idaea says.

“That sounds lovely,” Credence says.

The sound of the door behind them opening startles Credence, and when he turns, there stands Percival Graves just as Credence remembers him. His face has been clean shaven and he has a broad, dark coat over his shoulders on top of so many layers of fine clothing that Credence loses count in his lapels.

“You should leave here at once,” Mr. Graves says, and Credence feels so struck by the power of his voice it feels like he’s bewitched. He should simply obey.

But, he doesn’t _want_ to. 

Credence licks his lips and tests himself. “No.”

“Why not,” Mr. Graves says, his heavy brow adding a layer of emotion to his face that makes Credence shake.

“Because I don’t want to,” he says.

This makes Mr. Graves frown at him.

“You want to talk, then?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence nods.

“Follow me,” he says, turning on his heel and sending the tails of his coat swirling around him. 

Credence lets out a shaky breath and looks at the painting, where Idaea reclines against the rocky shore of her river and smiles at him. Credence smiles back, tentatively, and hurries after Mr. Graves.

They go up the stairs in silence and Mr. Graves opens his door without touching it or even speaking a word. Credence follows him, and the door slams shut behind him.

“Did anyone follow you here?” Mr. Graves asks, keeping a wide distance from Credence.

Credence looks around at the apartment and finds it’s much emptier than he had expected. There are a few photographs on the far wall which seem to glare at him. A desk in the corner looks like it’s been stripped empty, with gaping holes where there might have been drawers.

A wing-backed chair in a rich, royal blue lies on its side with a broken-off leg.

“No,” Credence says. “I told no one where I was going. I came alone.”

“That could be terribly dangerous,” Mr. Graves says, gesturing widely. “You could have —”

Mr. Graves presses the knuckles of his hand to his lips.

“Do you have any idea what —”

Mr. Graves looks toward the ceiling of his apartment and his shoulders heave up and down with the force of his sighing.

“Why have you come here, Credence?” he asks.

“You said I should do what I wanted with my life now,” Credence says, confidently.

“Good Morrigan’s wand,” Mr. Graves says, “and why would you want to come here, then?”

When Credence can’t come up with the words quickly enough, Mr. Graves turns his back on him.

“Haven’t I done enough to you?” he asks, throwing his coat off his shoulders. Then he takes off the jacket beneath and Credence can see his arms moving under the fabric of his shirt.

Credence takes off his coat, then his jacket, as well, and drapes both over his arm.

“Let me take those for you,” Mr. Graves says. “Unless you’ve changed your mind and want to leave.”

Credence shakes his head and feels his hair fall out of place.

When he holds out his jacket and coat, they float off his arm at the motion of Percival Graves’ hand. Credence stands in his best clothes and prays for courage. He prays to his own magic, as that’s rather what it feels like — beseeching an invisible power to grant his desires.

“I intend to leave the country,” Credence says.

“What?” Graves asks, stopping short. He looks at Credence with one hand on the cuff of his shirt.

“I won’t be in New York for long, I think,” he says. “And I would like to write to you, if you’d allow it.”

“You’re leaving?” Graves asks. “I suppose that’s for the best.”

“And you’ll let me write to you?” Credence asks. “I enjoyed doing it. And now I might be able to keep your responses, if you wrote back.”

Mr. Graves doesn’t say anything at all. He stares at Credence for a long moment, from so many feet away, and then rubs his face with both hands.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Credence,” he says.

“Why?” Credence asks. And, before he can respond, Credence adds, “If you’re concerned that someone would find my letters again, you needn’t keep them. I would understand. You could burn them. We could send letters through other people, perhaps? I wouldn’t write to you directly. Surely, with magic, there’s some way to conceal the contents of a letter.”

“There are ways, yes,” Mr. Graves says, which makes bright hope spring to life within Credence’s chest and leap up his throat.

“Then you’ll write?” Credence asks. 

At the twist of Mr. Graves’ hand, the royal blue chair rights itself and its broken leg is made whole. Mr. Graves goes over and sits down, which leaves Credence much at a loss. He has a brief thought of sitting himself in Mr. Graves’ lap, but he can’t even bring himself to lift his feet.

Mr. Graves reaches into the air and, with the yank of his arm, a chair slides in from another room. It’s very square and covered in black leather. It stops a good distance from Mr. Graves, but the man gestures at Credence.

“Have a seat,” he says. “I don’t know how to tell you what a terrible idea it is to stay in contact with me, but I’m sure you’ll wait for it.”

Credence chews on the inside of his cheeks to keep from reacting. He takes a seat across from Mr. Graves.

“You would have waited all day in the lobby, chatting with the nymph, if I hadn’t come down,” Mr. Graves says. 

It’s not a question, but Credence says, “Yes, I would have.”

Mr. Graves rests his elbow on the arm of his chair and holds his chin in his hand. He doesn’t look at Credence, which gives Credence an opening to stare without consequence. He traces the lines of Mr. Graves’ arms with his eyes, then the fit of his waistcoat. He holds his knees so far apart when he sits, while Credence sits with his knees almost pressed together and his arms very still at his sides. 

“After everything that has come to you because of me, you’re still here, telling me that you want to write,” Mr. Graves says. “Isn’t there anything I can say to discourage you?” 

“I suppose,” Credence says. If Mr. Graves told him that he hated him, perhaps, or that he was better off dead, or that he was useless and worthless and horrible. But Credence has already weathered enough of that to know he could survive it.

He will always remember the shape of Mr. Graves’ mouth saying, “I loved you.”

He’d like to see it again, in the flesh.

“But you told me you loved me,” Credence says. 

Mr. Graves’ chest rises and falls, changing the creases on his waistcoat.

“So,” he says, “that was you.”

“Yes,” Credence admits. “I didn’t mean to be so cruel to you. I was rather upset and —”

“Why didn’t you kill me?” Mr. Graves asks. 

Credence stops speaking, his mouth hanging open. He feels the click in his teeth when he shuts it.

With his chin in his hand, Mr. Graves turns and looks at Credence. He stares at him so intensely that Credence feels like he’ll go to smoke and nothingness. But his fists are still clenched so that his knuckles rest against black leather. He swallows and feels his adam’s apple brush against the collar of his shirt.

“Because I love you,” he says, in a very small voice. 

When Mr. Graves looks away from him, Credence feels as though surely _now_ he has ceased to exist. In the quiet, it's easy to imagine himself invisible. 

“I'm sure you believe that,” Mr. Graves says, without even a glance.

Shame and anger feel hot, boiling, inside him. Credence digs his nails into his palms and thinks, “Why should I control myself? Why?”

But he does.

“I don't want to be belittled by you,” Credence says, feeling very tight inside his throat. “I know what you think of me. I know… I didn't give you what you wanted. But we both liked the letters, didn't we?”

He feels hot all over, especially at his neck and the palms of his hands, and then cold. He might be sweating.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says, and his heart feels like a bell that's been struck. 

“I'm glad you're going abroad,” he says. “You can start a new life. I hope you'll forget about me, the things I did and the things I failed to do. I hope you'll also forget anything you heard from that awful farce of a trial.”

Credence doesn't respond. He holds himself very still and quiet, his shoulders pulling toward his ears to make a smaller target of his body.

“And if you can't forget,” Mr. Graves says, “I hope you find it within yourself to forgive me, though I know I don't deserve it.”

Should he respond to that? Silence falls between them, but Credence’s tongue feels sealed to the roof of his mouth.

He swallows. His lips part.

“I forgive you,” Credence says. “I already forgave you.”

He still has so many uncharitable, even sinful thoughts and feelings about Percival Graves. But love is not provoked and taketh not account of evil, and Credence is certain that he loves Percival Graves.

“I hope you will forgive me as well,” Credence says. “I hurt you. I tormented you. I concealed parts of myself from you. I lied. And I… I didn't notice…”

He's crying and that makes it very difficult to speak. He also feels terribly ashamed. He does not want to admit these things, but he must.

“I didn't notice that it wasn't you,” he says.

At this, Mr. Graves moves suddenly. He leans forward in his chair and grips his knee with one hand.

“Credence,” he says. “Don’t blame yourself for that. You, of all people…”

“I did know,” Credence says. “I think… I think that I knew. Things had changed, but I thought it was me. I thought I had done something wrong.”

Mr. Graves says his name very softly and now he’s looking at Credence quite intensely. But Credence doesn’t want to look at him anymore. He looks at the stripes of grey in his pants instead. There are small, dark spots on the fabric from his tears.

“He didn’t ask after me the way you always did, and he flattered me more, made promises,” Credence says. “But he didn’t ever kiss me, even when we were alone. I should have known it wasn’t you.”

He breathes in sharply through his nose, which is a bit stuffed up. “Things were wrong, and if I had only fought him instead of —”

“You would’ve been killed,” Mr. Graves says, forcefully enough to make Credence flinch back.

“No,” Credence says. “I wouldn’t have been killed. But I could have found you sooner than I did.”

Mr. Graves shakes his head, then smooths his hair back into place with one hand.

“Thank you for that,” Mr. Graves says. “But I would have rather died there than put you in more danger from… that creature.”

“Creatures are much simpler than man,” Credence says. “Only man can be so wicked.”

The silence sits between them, then, because Credence is unwilling to say any more about the wickedness of men. 

Mr. Graves looks at him, simply looks. He leans his weight on one knee, and Credence watches him. He keeps his chin down and traces the seam of Mr. Graves’ slacks with his eyes, then the lines of his cuffs, his sleeves, his shoulders. When Credence looks closely, he finds a new scar at Mr. Graves’ temple opposite the one beneath his eye. The thinness of his face now is more exaggerated by his clean shave. But it also makes his two beauty spots — or witch’s marks, Credence supposes — stand out more, and Credence always found those particularly handsome.

“I owe you an incredible debt, Credence,” Mr. Graves says. 

Credence drops his gaze.

“Thank you,” Mr. Graves says. “For your willingness to forgive, for… everything.”

Percival Graves takes his hand off his knee and sinks back into his very tall, very blue chair. He touches the bridge of his nose and as his hand moves over his face, his fingers catch on his lips. Credence breathes very carefully.

“You saved my life, after…” Mr. Graves’ hand lingers on his chin. “After everything I did to you. I owe you for that as well.”

Looking at his mouth, Credence says, “I liked much of it, what you did to me.”

He feels bold. He thinks of Percival Graves — with his nice clothes and his firm voice and his steady hands — owing anything to Credence Barebone — who has nothing and whose hands shake badly when he doesn’t hold them in tight fists. He looks at Mr. Graves’ knees, held so wide apart, and considers how he might fit between them. Credence wants so badly to be closer to Mr. Graves, then, that his chair moves smoothly forward across the floor.

Credence look at Mr. Graves with his eyes very wide-open, terribly embarrassed by his magic. His burning shame flares even brighter when Mr. Graves raises his eyebrows at him.

“Did you have that all along?” Mr. Graves asks. “Magic?”

Credence nods his head. “Yes, I think so. I’m sorry I kept it from you.”

“It was your secret to keep,” he says. “Though I wish…”

“I wish it too,” Credence says.

They regard each other from a distance, though a smaller distance than before. But Credence wants to be closer. He wants so many things.

“May I come closer?” he asks.

Mr. Graves rests his elbows on the arms of his chair. He puts one hand against his knee and another close to his mouth. 

“You can do whatever you wish, I suppose,” he says, as though it’s not an invitation for terrible wickedness. Huge and terrible hungers grip Credence and he hunches his shoulders and bows his head, shrinking into himself.

Credence inches himself forward, careful not to scratch the chair against the wood floor, until his knees are only about a finger’s width from the edge of Mr. Graves’ chair. Mr. Graves looks at him with one of his eyebrows cocked upward, as though he wants to say something. But he keeps his hand on his knee and stays silent.

“I want to write to you,” Credence says again, when the silence feels too overwhelming to keep. “And, if you feel that you owe me something, perhaps, you could write back.”

He lifts his chin and looks at Mr. Graves as best he can from so close. Thoughts of rising from his chair and falling completely, bodily against Mr. Graves plague him, but Credence holds himself still. 

“I do owe you,” Mr. Graves says, “and you are… It’s very difficult to refuse you, Credence.”

“Yet you do,” Credence says. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, dropping his gaze. “I didn’t mean that.”

“I think you did,” Mr. Graves says. “After all, I’ve been telling you to leave, to be rid of me. I’m certainly trying to refuse you.”

“I don’t want to be rid of you,” Credence says. “I want to have you.”

Credence shuts his mouth with the sharp click of his teeth. “I’ve said too much. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Mr. Graves says. “You’re hardly alone in this problem of saying too much.”

“It would be enough if we could write to each other,” Credence says. 

“Would it?” Mr. Graves asks.

They're close enough for Percival Graves to reach out and brush his fingers against Credence’s arm. His whole body jolts, and suddenly Credence has his hand on Mr. Graves’ forearm above the cuff of his sleeve.

“Is that all you want?” Mr. Graves asks. “For me to write to you?”

“No,” Credence says.

“What is it that you truly want, Credence?” he asks.

It would be too easy to say, “Everything.” But Credence doesn't know what Mr. Graves is willing to offer or what he could accept. He’s not even sure what everything might entail.

When he lets go of Mr. Graves’ arm, his hand shakes.

Credence looks at Mr. Graves’ face instead of his own hand as he reaches toward the new scar on his temple where it disappears into his hairline. He doesn't quite touch him, but Mr. Graves leans his head slightly to one side until Credence’s fingertips brush the short hairs at the side of his head.

His face is warm against Credence’s palm.

“I've missed you,” Percival Graves says. “Terribly.”

“So have I,” Credence says. “Every day.”

He leans forward more and more until his knees press against the blue upholstery of Mr. Graves’ seat. He looks into his eyes, so dark and so focused on him.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence nods very slowly. He can feel Percival Graves’ breath against his lips.

Their mouths meet slowly, softly, so softly. Credence inhales against Mr. Graves’ lips. The warmth surprises him. He presses into it, until Mr. Graves squeezes his fingers around Credence’s upper arm. It feels as though he’s being pulled forward, and Credence finds himself putting his arm against Mr. Graves’ shoulder. His bare hand presses against the back of Mr. Graves’ neck. His mouth opens against Credence’s lower lip. The wetness startles him badly enough to pull away from the kiss. 

“I don’t want to frighten you,” Mr. Graves says.

“I’m not afraid,” Credence says, fierce with denial. He throws himself into a second kiss, hard enough to push his nose against Mr. Graves’ cheek. 

Mr. Graves pulls away this time. He moves his hand from Credence’s arm to the nape of his neck, where very short hairs have started to grow in. His fingers brush against these hairs and Credence shivers. He folds over. His face falls into the space between his own arm and Mr. Graves’ neck.

“There’s no need to rush, Credence,” Mr. Graves says, as though Credence has not resolved himself to leave the country very soon.

When he moves his head, his cheek rubs against the collar of Mr. Graves’ shirt and the lapels of his waistcoat. Both are soft, so soft, and warm with the heat of Mr. Graves’ skin. Credence feels wanton and whorish with desire. He wants to be held in Mr. Graves’ arms. He wants to put his arms around the man and surround him somehow with every inch of himself. He wants so much that he aches. 

Mr. Graves’ hand appears, sudden and hot, against his thigh. His touch burns through the striped fabric of Credence’s new pants. Credence sits up so suddenly that Mr. Graves’ other hand slips away from the back of his head.

“Ah,” Mr. Graves says. “I apologize. I promise I can keep my hands to myself.”

“No,” Credence says. “You can touch me, Mr. Graves.”

His heart feels like it might leap up into his throat from pounding so hard, or like it could simply explode inside his chest. It almost, almost feels as though Credence might come to pieces right here in Mr. Graves’ empty sitting room.

He doesn’t, but it’s a close thing.

“Wouldn’t you rather call me by my name?” Mr. Graves says. 

Credence takes a deep breath that shakes on the way in and then on the way out.

“May I?”

“I’d prefer it,” Percival Graves says. “Unless you want me to call you Mr. Barebone.”

“I prefer when you call me Credence,” he says.

“Would you like something to drink, Credence?” Percival asks him.

He feels as though he’s on fire from within, so he says, “Water, if you please.”

Credence has always spoken very carefully. His mother, the only one he ever knew, preferred him to be quiet — and if he spoke, he should be clear and not waste anyone’s time.

Still, he pauses slightly now. “Percival.”

It slips off of his tongue like a spell, one that causes Percival Graves to stare at him with his lips slightly parted. For a moment, just a moment, Credence tasted those lips with his own tongue. And the tongue between those lips has tasted his mouth as well.

Oh, it makes him _burn_. 

Then Percival blinks, and leans forward to touch the arms of Credence’s chair with the tips of his fingers. More with magic than with strength, Credence’s chair slides backward. For a moment, before Percival’s hands leave the arms of the chair, he’s leaned over Credence in a way that makes Credence pull his knees tighter together. He winces. Percival looks at his face with a strange expression.

“I’m not rejecting you, if that’s what you think,” he says, straightening up and smoothing his lapels with the flat of his hand. “I quite liked how close together we were, but it made getting to my feet a bit — troublesome.”

He stands up smoothly, but reaches down and and puts a hand on one thigh as he does so.

“Of course,” Credence says.

He stands up as well, but knows that he’s stiff and strange in his own body. His neck feels hot under his shirt collar and tie. He’s probably gone all red in the face by now. Despite his discomfort, Credence takes some relief in the fact that Percival doesn’t seem to notice or simply chooses not to acknowledge it. 

“Follow me,” Percival says. 

Credence doesn’t know which is louder: the heels of his shoes on the wood floor or the pounding of his own pulse in his ears.

Through an intricately carved door made of dark wood, Percival has a kitchen much grander than Credence has ever seen. It does not look well-used. There is a small table with exactly two chairs and no tablecloth. Instead, it seems covered in papers and leatherbound files. Not wanting Percival to think of him as a snoop, Credence takes care not to look too carefully.

A high cupboard door swings open at the wave of Percival’s hand and two glasses of cut crystal — like Credence has seen in store windows — gently float down to the counter. 

Percival then waves his hand at the icebox, which unlatches and swings opens. A pewter pitcher flies into Percival’s hand when he pinches his fingers together. He doesn’t even have to look to catch it. Instead, he looks at Credence and then at the small table in the kitchen.

“It’s a bit of a mess,” he says. “I apologize. I wasn’t expecting company, well, ever.”

He pours water from the pitcher into both crystal glasses.

“Certainly, I didn’t expect you, Credence,” Percival continues. “And I didn’t think I’d be showing you around the place. There’s not much to show anyway. My recent house guest had little care for the place.”

Credence doesn’t know quite where to look or what to say, so he stays quiet.

“Hold out your hand,” Percival says, and Credence only hesitates a moment before he thrusts his arm forward with his palm up.

At the gentle beckoning of Percival’s hand, one of the crystal glasses lifts off the counter and comes directly to Credence. He takes it in both hands, terrified of the possibility of dropping it. He feels certain that it’s worth more than anything he’s ever drunk from in his life. He’s almost too nervous to put his lips against it.

But Percival looks at him as though he expects something, so Credence says, “Thank you,” and drinks.

This seems to satisfy him, because Percival looks away and toward the table. He makes a much more complicated series of gestures with two fingers and says a whole series of words. Credence looks over his shoulder to watch as the papers on the table organize themselves into stacks and fly into the leather files. After a minute, the table has been entirely cleared.

“You can have a seat now, if you want,” Percival says.

Credence takes a sip of cold water.

“I’m more comfortable standing,” Percival says. “My leg agrees with me most if I’m up or walking.”

“I understand,” Credence says.

He watches Percival lean a hand on the counter and drink from his own glass with a sort of self-possessed grace from which Credence can’t bear to look away. It’s somehow even more impressive, watching Percival stand and have a drink, than seeing a table full of papers tidy themselves.

“How did you get here?” Percival asks, looking at him.

“To your residence?” Credence asks, in case this line of questioning is more philosophical.

“Yes, of course,” Percival says. “Has Goldstein gotten you a wand and taught you how to apparate already?”

“No,” Credence says, “I walked.”

“You walked?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

Credence puts the glass to his lips to keep himself from saying anything more, since that was clearly the wrong thing.

“Doesn’t Goldstein live out in Chelsea?” Percival asks. 

Then he sighs, his broad shoulders sloping slightly. He smiles at Credence with just one corner of his mouth lifting.

“Of course you walked,” Percival says. “I should’ve known better than to say no to you, Credence, you have always been the most impressively determined man.”

Looking at his water glass, Credence shifts his weight from foot to foot.

“Would you care for something to eat?” Percival asks. “I’m not much of a cook, but I think I have food around here.”

“I ate before I left,” Credence says. 

“I suppose that would’ve been around lunchtime, wasn’t it?” Percival says. “I lose track of these things.”

That makes Credence frown. “Have you eaten yet today, Percival?”

The man blinks. “No.”

Credence keeps his chin down, but he looks Percival directly in the eyes. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he says. “I think I’m rather hungry.”

Percival sighs and unlatches the icebox again with the wave of his hand.

They stand in the kitchen and Credence involves himself when it’s clear that Percival is actually abysmal in the kitchen. Credence has only been using magic with intention for a few days, but he knows he’s a better cook. He can at least slice a tomato without crushing it to pulp.

“Where do you even get these in January?” Credence asks.

“Magic,” Percival answers. “And hothouses.”

Credence nods his head and draws sandwich ingredients together with the wave of his hands. They eat standing and Credence finds himself hunching over the counter to keep from getting crumbs everywhere. At least, he thinks, eating keeps him from saying any of the ridiculous things he thinks while watching Percival eat.

Also, thankfully, Percival eats rather quickly — as though he didn’t realize how hungry he was until after the first bite.

When he’s done, Percival pulls out a handkerchief to wipe his hands, then his mouth. 

Credence smiles at him, as best he can manage, and tries to think of a polite way to point out the crumbs Percival missed at the corner of his mouth. He hasn’t seemed to notice by the time Credence has finished eating.

“Your tie,” Percival says.

Credence looks down at himself, but Percival steps forward and puts his hands at Credence’s throat. He resettles the knot against Credence’s collar and flattens the length of the silk, tucking it into Credence’s waistcoat.

“You need a pin,” he says.

And Credence doesn’t know what to say to that, but Percival now stands very close to him. So he reaches up and brushes the crumbs from his mouth with his thumb. The shape of his mouth changes at Credence’s touch, into half a smile. Before he can pull away, Percival turns his face and kisses the pad of Credence’s thumb.

“Thank you,” Percival says.

“You’re welcome,” Credence says, automatically. He takes his hand away very slowly and Percival adjusts Credence’s collar once more before he stops touching him as well.

“Now come with me,” he says, and Credence does.

They go through the sitting room into the room from which Percival pulled the chair for Credence to sit in, then into another room. Credence recognizes it as a bedroom, but it looks — well, it looks as though Credence had an episode in here. One of the heavy wooden posts on the bed frame has been cracked in half and the dark blue canopy is shredded as though by some wild animal. The mattress, with its sheets barely in place, hangs half off the bed. Every drawer in an extravagantly long dresser has been yanked out and a tall wooden bureau hangs open with both doors nearly off their metal hinges.

“It’s a bit of a mess,” Percival says. “Sorry.”

Credence looks at the floor to keep from stepping on anything, but there are clothes almost everywhere and his feet are simply too big to stay clear.

“I don’t mind,” Credence says, though that’s a lie. He’s rather concerned about where, exactly, Percival is sleeping. He hopes it’s not in here. Maybe there’s another bedroom?

“What colors do you usually wear?” Percival asks. “Still blue and white? I notice the pink’s new.”

“Yes,” Credence says. “Tina gave me a black jacket as well.”

Percival nods and digs through the chaos of his bureau, stepping all over the clothing on the floor as though it’s not even there.

“Here,” Percival says, turning around and coming over to Credence with something in his hand.

Credence looks at the bit of metal in Percival’s hand and thinks, at first, that it’s a hair pin. But it’s rather short, and anyway, Credence’s hair is even shorter.

“You don’t know what this is, do you?” he asks, and Credence squeezes his fists.

“No,” Credence says.

“Honest,” Percival says, nodding. “Do you want me to put it on you?”

“Not unless you’ll tell me what it is,” he answers.

Percival laughs. “That’s fair. It’s a tie pin, to keep yours from slipping out of your waistcoat.”

“Alright,” Credence says. “Thank you.”

He wants to refuse, but he also doesn’t. He shouldn’t accept this from Percival. The pin looks to be silver and, given everything that Percival wears, it’s undoubtedly expensive. It’s probably _real_ silver. 

He doesn’t want to take anything, for fear of it being some wicked magic again. But he also desperately wants Percival to give him something to wear that is his, that makes Credence his as well.

With one hand, Percival opens the buttons of Credence’s waistcoat. He smooths down his tie and measures the pin against it, finding some spot below the knot. Credence keeps looking at Percival’s face, as he looks intently at Credence’s chest. He doesn’t even notice when Percival puts the pin through his tie, but he certainly notices Percival’s fingers sliding into his shirt between two buttons. He can feel his touch like a ghost, so close to his skin.

Then, just as quickly, Percival’s fingers disappear and he buttons Credence’s waistcoat back up again.

“There you go,” Percival says, tugging on Credence’s lapels.

Credence feels his mouth open, but he doesn’t have anything to say. He wants Percival to kiss him. He wants Percival to unbutton his waistcoat again, and then his shirt. He wants to be stripped bare by Percival’s hands and throw his clothes down amongst all the rest under their feet.

Instead, he just stands there — likely looking like an idiot with his mouth hanging open.

“If you have any shirts with bigger collars,” Percival says, “I have some collar pins as well. You can have them. I don’t know when I’m going to wear any of this shit again.”

“Thank you,” Credence says. “But your belongings are your own. I’m sure you’ll find opportunities.”

“I appreciate your confidence, Credence,” Percival says. “But I don’t know if I want opportunities. I’d rather see it on you.”

Credence looks at Percival’s mouth and catches the movement of his throat when he swallows.

“And I doubt Goldstein is providing you with everything you need,” Percival says. “Nor that friend of hers, Scamander. He wore the same thing to every single day of the trial — made him incredibly easy to spot in a crowd.”

Credence smiles despite himself, because it’s true. 

“If you’re going abroad,” he continues, “there’s no reason not to look your best. Though it shouldn’t be too hard. Nowhere in the wizarding world has half the style of New York.”

“You mean they don’t have half the style that you do,” Credence says.

“Of course,” Percival says, and he smiles at Credence.

“May I kiss you again, Percival?” Credence asks.

His smile softens as he looks Credence over. “A man could get all kinds of ideas from someone so beautiful standing in his bedroom and asking to kiss him.”

Credence feels himself genuinely smiling, then, because he wants to give Percival all of those ideas. He thinks of something truly, truly wicked. It would blister his tongue to even say it, but there’s already so much heat inside of him. A single glass of water and a second lunch weren’t enough to extinguish the burning coals in his belly.

“A man could get ideas from someone bringing him into his bedroom,” Credence says, “just so he can stick something in him.”

All at once, Percival’s eyes grow very wide and he bursts into laughter that makes the skin around his eyes crease. The scar on his cheek turns into a series of reddish pits that Credence wants to put his mouth against.

“Credence,” Percival says, as though simply saying his name makes him this happy.

“Your tie,” he says. “I stuck something in your tie, not you. That’s a big difference, I think.”

Credence’s tongue remains unburnt, but his face has grown very hot.

“Are you going to kiss me, then?” Percival asks.

He puts his hands on Credence so that his thumbs brush his collar on both sides. His hands seem to weigh down Credence’s shoulders, and he realizes that he can’t easily put his arms around Percival’s neck without pushing Percival’s hands away.

But he could, Credence thinks, put an arm around Percival’s waist. He tests his luck with one hand and Percival moves closer. Their noses nearly touch and Credence finds himself tilting his head slightly so they align rather than collide. Their mouths meet gently and Credence lets his eyes fall shut.

The wetness of Percival’s open mouth sends a shock through him again, but he doesn’t push away. Instead, he opens his mouth to it. Though Percival tastes like nothing more than the sandwiches they both ate, Credence thinks of milk and honey, of manna from heaven, of all the beautiful meringues and chocolates he has seen in shop windows and never tasted. He savors it.

Percival breathes into his mouth and Credence draws every breath through his nose so that he doesn’t have to break their kiss.

The glowing coals that settled between Credence’s hipbones after their first kiss in the sitting room feel stoked into flame. The heat gathers between his legs with the throb of his pulse, but it spreads everywhere from there. Even Credence’s hand against Percival’s back seems to pound with blood and burn with heat.

He has to stop before it consumes him and reduces him to ashes. Oh, but he wants to be ashes in Percival’s hands. He wants it.

Credence stumbles backwards, his heel catching on the sleeve of a shirt and slipping. Percival holds him tight by his upper arms. He looks alarmed, but all Credence can focus on is the blood color of his wet mouth.

“I should go,” Credence says.

“Whatever you want,” Percival says.

At those words, too tempting to resist, Credence lunges forward and crushes his mouth against Percival’s. His lips sting from being caught between his teeth and Percival’s. He pulls away again.

“I want to see you again,” Credence says. “At least once, before I go.”

“When do you leave?” Percival asks.

“Soon,” Credence says. “Next week.”

“Talk to Goldstein,” Percival says. “She may know who’s watching this place and when. She’ll make sure you’re safe.”

“I can take care of myself,” Credence tells him, because he’s ashamed to tell Tina about anything he’s done today. Which is worse: that he lied to Newt or that he did it so that he might commit acts of lust with Mr. Graves?

“I’m not belittling you,” Percival says. He puts a hand against Credence’s cheek very gently. His palm feels cool against Credence’s skin. He must be terribly flushed.

“I just want you to be safe,” he says. “If MACUSA knew you were alive, if they — if anything happened to you, I don’t — Credence, please, just listen to me.”

“Fine,” Credence says. “I’ll speak to Tina.”

The thought feels like cold water running down Credence’s back. “I do have to go.”

“Of course,” Percival says. “Let me get your coat.”

Back in the sitting room, Percival pulls Credence’s coat and jacket to him with magic, but helps him into both with his hands.

“You look quite dashing,” Percival says, which just makes Credence want to kiss him. How dare he say that?

“May I escort you to the door?” he asks.

“Yes,” Credence says. “Please.”

As Percival opens the door with magic, he puts a hand against Credence’s back. Credence shivers.

“I don’t suppose you’d also let me pay a cab fare,” he says, rather close to Credence’s ear.

“No,” he says. “I think the walk will be good for me.”

It should be cold out, and Credence needs to cool down before he gets back to the Goldstein sisters’ rooms.

“Whatever you want,” Percival says, but his hand stays on Credence’s back the whole way down the stairs.

“Hello there, Misters Credence and Percival,” the painting greets them when the stairwell door opens. “You look well, sirs.”

“Thank you,” Credence says.

When they reach the door to the outside, Credence hesitates for a moment. He wants another kiss — a farewell kiss. But he can also see the street from here. He doesn’t dare. Still, as Percival tells him to take care and be careful, Credence longs for it.

But he has the whole long, cold walk back across Manhattan to think about the kisses he did get from Mr. Percival Graves. It makes him smile to himself, his head tipped down and tucked into the collar of his borrowed coat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on Tumblr where I've been taking weird prompts and will talk ad nauseum about this fic if you ask @ jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s.tumblr.com


	8. Parting gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tina Goldstein and President Picquery dabble in perjury and bribery. Percival Graves does a bit of shopping. Credence Barebone attempts a seduction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating increase. Things are going to get spicy.

Newt doesn’t notice the pin on Credence’s tie. He sees it, but it never occurs to him that Credence wasn’t wearing it when he left. Maybe he bought it when he was out shopping. He doesn’t ask. 

Newt finds it as challenging to meet Credence’s eye as he does most other people’s, with the added complication that Credence always seems like he would prefer not to be looked at.

Still, after Credence apologizes unnecessarily for being late to return, as though Newt expected him back by a particular hour, they have a wonderful conversation about the history of magic in the East, the opening of Japan’s borders, Newt’s trip there, and the proper way to clean and treat a kappa bite.

Newt has just rolled up his sleeve to show Credence the scar when Tina and Queenie arrive.

“I can’t believe you waited for me,” Tina says. “My briefing with Limus could have gone on for hours.”

“Then I woulda waited for hours,” Queenie says softly.

Newt goes out into the kitchen to greet them, with Credence following behind.

Tina looks right at him, with her coat half off, and he manages less than a heartbeat before he finds something to look at beside her face. It’s a very lovely face, in his estimation, but that actually makes it worse. He drums his fingers against the table and only looks up again when he sees motion. The women have their coats off and Queenie has started making dinner, it appears. 

Newt catches Tina scowling and follows her line of sight to Credence’s tie, where he touches the pin with his left hand. 

Newt looks away, and accidentally catches Queenie’s eye. She looks right at him while dinner makes itself over her head. Newt quickly looks away.

“How was your day?” he asks, without directing it at anyone in particular.

“Long,” Tina says, forcefully. “They still won’t let me anywhere near any of the cases they say I was ‘personally involved in,’ but get this — someone accidentally cursed an entire road outside St. Louis. It’s not even a real road, it’s just rocks with forest on either side. No one knows who did it, but two No-Majs and a witch’s five-year-old daughter have already disappeared in the area.”

“Are they certain it’s a curse?” Newt asks.

“Oh yeah,” Tina says. “It’s kind of impressive in photos, you can actually see the road shifting around. Something dark got into that limestone. Two local aurors are coming out here to report to Limus, that’s my boss for the moment, and I’m reviewing all _their_ reports to summarize.” 

Tina mentions the idea of a diversionary illusion gone awry, and Newt asks, “Do you think it could be related to…?”

He trails off with his hand almost against his mouth, too late to stop himself.

“Definitely,” Tina says. “Or someone who got inspired. There’s a lot of ugliness out there in Missouri. The No-Majs have their problems, but it’s not so different for us.”

As Newt understands it, Missouri isn’t quite as far from New York as Arizona, but it’s not exactly nearby. He distracts himself by discussing with Tina the particular difficulty of undoing badly or miscast spells. Together, he thinks they do a decent job of teaching Credence the principles of the concept.

Then, Queenie serves dinner, and Newt realizes he’s across the narrow part of the table from Tina. His foot accidentally bumps into hers.

“Sorry,” he says, to his plate.

“It’s fine,” Tina says.

They lapse into silence, and worst of all Credence and Queenie stay totally quiet as well. Newt begins to wonder if he should say something, even just a compliment to Queenie’s cooking.

“So, Credence,” Queenie says. 

Newt glances to his left, then to the front. Tina turns her face into full profile when she looks at Credence. She has a very cute nose.

“How’s Mr. Graves?” Queenie asks.

“What?” Tina says, her voice hitting a high note.

Worried, Newt looks at Credence from the side. He holds his fork in his hand very, very tightly, and doesn’t look up.

“He’s well,” he says.

“Credence,” Tina says, with a weight to her voice that reminds Newt so much of a professor.

“He went for a social visit,” Queenie interjects. “He wasn’t going to tell you.”

“Yes, I was,” Credence says. “Just not at the dinner table.”

“Yeah right,” Queenie says. “You told Newt you were going shopping.”

Oh, Newt thinks. 

“You don’t gotta lie to us,” Queenie says, sharply. 

“No, you don’t,” Newt says, as gently as he can. 

He looks up at Tina and she looks, well, flatly furious. So he looks down again.

“Did you have a pleasant time?” Newt asks, cutting a bite of his food with fork and knife.

“Yes,” Credence says. “It was very nice.”

“How did you —” Tina starts. “Why would you — Wait.”

She holds one hand up near her face and Newt’s not so unobservant as to miss the way Credence flinches. But Tina only takes a deep breath.

“Where did you see Mr. Graves?” she asks. “Was he here?”

“No,” Credence says. 

Tina’s shoulders sag when she breathes out and she seems to be taking a lot of deep breaths to make herself sit up straight again. Newt is absolutely not staring at the way her watch moves against her chest with every breath.

“Please tell me you didn’t go to his apartment,” she says, after a moment.

Credence says nothing.

“What time?” she asks. “I mean, what time was it when you were there?”

“I don’t know,” Credence says. He doesn’t have a watch, Newt thinks. 

“Do you know if anyone followed you?” Tina asks. “Either there or back? Were you there long?”

“An hour,” Credence says. “Maybe.”

“Okay,” Tina says. “That’s not too long. If it was around three, maybe… Maybe it’s alright.”

The hard crack of metal on porcelain makes Newt jump slightly in his seat. He looks at Credence, or rather Credence’s empty fist against the table.

“I’m going to see him again,” he says, with a voice like a coiled snake warning that it feels threatened and may strike.

“Okay,” Tina says. “When? Did he set something up?”

As Newt watches, Credence’s fist relaxes.

“Well?” Tina asks.

“He said I should talk to you,” Credence says. 

“Of course he did,” Tina says, in words that Newt thinks should sound more irritated. Instead, she sounds… pleased? “First, I’ll have to make sure that no one saw you today, because they might change the surveillance schedule over something like that.”

After another long moment, Credence says, “Oh.”

“And I’ll go with you,” Tina says.

Queenie badly fakes a cough into her hand.

“I’m not gonna _stay_ ,” Tina says to her sister. “I’ll go to the park and walk around for a bit or something, and Credence can talk to him, or… something.” 

“I could join you,” Newt says. He doesn’t speak loudly, exactly, but everyone still stops and looks at him. It reminds him very much of his own family, and the sudden attention makes him slouch down in his seat.

“If you wanted,” he mumbles.

“You know, there’s always new places poppin’ up on Park Avenue,” Queenie says. “Maybe you two could have lunch while Credence visits with Mr. Graves.”

If Newt wasn’t already focusing very intently on his dinner plate, he might notice that Tina’s now very focused on her own. 

“I like watching the construction in Midtown,” Credence says. “I suppose it’s not so impressive, since you have magic, but it’s always something different.”

“Yeah,” Queenie says. “Why don’t you all go together?”

“I guess,” Tina says. “If you actually want to come. You still haven’t seen that much of New York, Newt.”

“Everything I’ve seen, so far,” he begins, “has been… lovely.”

He supposes it wasn’t really a fight, since no one tried to jinx anyone and nothing was thrown, but Newt still doesn’t look up from his plate for the rest of the night. He doesn’t really want to know if anyone’s looking at him.

The food, at least, is excellent — as it has been every night in the Goldstein sisters’ residence.

On the other side of Manhattan, Percival Graves ignores mediwitch instructions to take the potion he’s been prescribed with food. He has a cup of coffee with a splash of American-distilled sweetshine in it — not enough to actually curl his teeth, but enough to make them ache. This he accompanies with many hours of reading from a Latin text so old it’s still in scroll form. The topic: human transfiguration, how to perform it, how to identify when it has been done.

He continually whispers warming charms at his mug so that it’s hot against his lips when he drinks from it. After each sip he sets the mug down and brings his hand back to touch his lips for a few seconds. 

If he thinks of Credence Barebone, not even the most forcefully performed Imperio would have him admit to it.

He has his hand to his mouth when the voice of Idaea announces, “Mr. Percival Graves of Apartment 602, you are about to receive a visit from Madame President Seraphina Picquery. I suspect, sir, that you do not want this, but her name remains on the list of those persons always welcome in your apartment. Please consider updating that with the building, sir.”

Percival does not bother disguising his frustration when he says, “Thank you, Idaea.”

There’s a way the nymph has of calling him “sir” which reminds him of Goldstein, of all people. 

Getting to his feet, Percival leaves his coffee and the scroll where they sit on his desk. He buttons his shirt with the wave of his hand and yanks his smoking jacket through the air from his bedroom. He doesn’t even know what room he left his slippers in, so Seraphina will just have to see his bare feet. It won’t kill her.

He opens the door with the chain in place and waits to see her appear on the stairs.

“Picquery,” he says, at the first sight of her platinum curls and dark turban. “Why are you here?”

“I see the painting let you know I was coming,” she says, “Percival.”

“ _Praemonitus_ ,” he answer, “ _praemunitus_.” 

She sighs and he notices the bottle of something in her hands.

“I’m surprised you’ve kept me on your list of permitted guests,” she says. “Does that mean you’ll allow me inside?”

He looks at her — not in any of the robes she wears to court or the sleeker suits she wears when working, so he knows she’s not here to talk politics. Of course, with Seraphina, when do they ever not? No, she has her hair tied up very tightly and her clothes are looser, as though she’s trying to look relaxed.

“Have you come to give me my wand back?” he asks. 

“Not yet,” she says. “Abernathy says it’s a work in progress.”

“That son of a bitch never liked me,” Percival says.

Seraphina’s mouth frowns just slightly and Percival notes the dark, plum color she’s painted on. She’s wearing an evening face, one that he’s certain he’s complimented before, likely over oysters and gigglewater.

“Fine,” he says, and the latch undoes itself at the right movement of Percival’s hand.

The door swings open and he lets her see exactly how prepared he isn’t for company at the moment. The chairs from Credence’s visit still sit facing each other, and the door to his demolished bedchamber hasn’t been closed.

“I see you’ve tidied,” Seraphina says.

Percival throws his hand up and the door slams behind her, but she doesn’t even blink.

“Would you like me to put this in the kitchen?” she asks, holding the bottle of alcohol just as perfectly as a painted advertisement. Of course, the girls with platinum curls in most posters shilling gigglewater don’t have her complexion. Which is a shame, Percival thinks, because Seraphina would be an excellent spokesperson and model.

“I’ll take care of it,” he says, taking the bottle with a forceful tug of magic.

When he returns, Seraphina has hung up her own coat, kicked off her shoes, and settled into his armchair. Her wand dangles from her fingertips.

“Comfortable?” he asks.

“No,” she says. 

Percival puts his hand against the back of the other chair, the black leather cool under his palm. He thinks of Credence.

“Don’t expect me to do anything about it, then,” he tells Seraphina.

“I don’t,” she says. “My comfort is no longer your responsibility, if it ever was.”

“Good to know you see it that way,” he says.

“Are you going to sit?” she asks.

“No,” he says.

She stares at him.

“I assume that’s where your other visitor sat today,” she says, after many silent seconds have passed.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, tracing Latin words on the leather.

“Damn it, Percy,” she says.

“Like a river,” he says, faintly. It makes her frown deeply.

“Who was it?” she asks. “The auror didn’t get a good look at them, just so you know.”

“Goldstein,” he says, thinking quickly. He had, after all, recognized the coat Credence wore when he arrived. “Porpentina Goldstein.”

“You’re joking,” Seraphina says. 

Then, “You’re not joking.”

Seraphina allows herself to sigh in front of him and he catches the particular tightness in her eyebrows that means she’s trying not to roll her eyes. He wouldn’t have held himself back, in her place.

“You know I’m going to have to ask her,” Seraphina says, “and it puts her more at risk than you if you’re lying.”

If Goldstein’s asked, Percival trusts that she’ll lie. Even if Credence hasn’t spoken to her. Even if he never does. Even if he never visits again, which still seems quite possible, Percival thinks she would lie for both of them.

She’s already proved that she’s willing to break the law for Credence Barebone, then stand up in front of Seraphina herself and lie to protect him. He almost feels as though he should write to her to express the purity of his intentions toward the young man, lest she be tempted to duel him for Credence’s honor.

“Is that all?” Percival asks.

“No,” Seraphina says.

He waits for her to say more, thinking the whole while about how he could be making progress on that Latin text.

“The Ministry wants him,” she says. “Says he should be held responsible for what he did there _first_ , as though they can call dibs on a murderer.” 

Percival grabs the back of the chair.

“I doubt it,” he says, through grit teeth.

“Oh, of course, I know horseshit when I smell it, Percy,” she says. “And this is horseshit.”

“Can you stop it?” he asks.

“I’m _trying_ ,” she says. “But they’ve taken their petition to the international court, saying I can’t be trusted because —” 

She hisses instead of saying what they’re both thinking.

“I could just spit,” she says.

“If you do,” Percival starts to say.

“That jinx rots your teeth,” she says. “Besides, I hate casting that kind of magic on myself. But, if you’d like your chance to spit acid on this particular slug, I could make sure you know what boat they put him on.”

“No,” Percival says. “But thank you.”

If he holds the back of the chair very, very tightly, then his hand won’t shake. The other’s tucked into his smoking jacket, out of Seraphina’s sight.

“I thought you needed to know,” she says. “Even though all your security clearances are, of course, quite exploded.”

“Understandably so,” he says.

When they lapse into silence again, Percival takes his hand out of his pocket and leans against the back of the chair with both arms.

“I need to go soon,” she says. 

“Then go now,” he tells her.

Her fingers tighten around her wand handle and Percival realizes that he always felt the color of this lipstick complemented her wand. Did he ever tell her? He can’t recall.

“Enjoy the gigglewater,” she says. “It’s an 1871 vintage.”

He doesn’t thank her, but he does hold the door with his hand instead of his magic.

She stands in his doorway for more than long enough to test his patience. The wards he set up don’t work as well when the door’s open. Just before he’s ready to push her out of the doorway with the door itself, Seraphina tucks her wand up her sleeve and puts her hand on his cheek.

“I’ll do whatever I have to,” she says.

“You always do,” he says, not caring to disguise his bitterness.

“Percy,” she says, with her hand against his evening stubble.

“Sera,” he says.

“Take care of yourself,” she says, then leans up on her toes to lightly press plum-painted lips to his other cheek. He can feel the sticky residue of lipstick against his skin, but doesn’t move to wipe it away.

He feels as frozen as if she’d stupefied him.

“I hope we’ll be friends again someday,” she says. “Good night.”

When Seraphina reaches the stairs, he shuts the door between them.

The next day, between security and economic briefings, dictating memorandums, and signing off on motions both significant and petty, the president of MACUSA punches the code for Major Investigations into her private elevator. They gave Goldstein the same office, which makes her easy to find. Madame President Picquery walks through the department with the kind of purpose in her stride that has kept people from asking her where she’s going and what she’s doing since she was 10 years old.

“Goldstein,” she says, by way of a greeting.

Goldstein makes a tableau of someone too busy to care about appearances. She has both elbows on her desk, with a pen in one hand and a powdered-sugar donut in the other. The second button on her poorly fitting blouse has come undone, or was never done up in the first place.

“Madame President,” Goldstein says, wide-eyed and startled. She sits up straight and accidentally loses her grip on the donut, getting white sugar on her dark grey jacket.

If it were anyone else, maybe Seraphina could ignore it.

“Where were you at one o’clock yesterday?” she asks.

Goldstein’s eyes get even wider. She glances down at the reports spread over her desk and the pen still in her other hand. She looks back up at Seraphina.

“I, uh, I — maybe I was taking my lunch at that time, Madame President,” she says.

Seraphina watches the woman fidget and try to maintain eye contact. It’s a bit of practice and a willingness to point charms at her own eyes, but Seraphina Picquery doesn’t need to blink as often as other people if she doesn’t want to.

“And where did you take your lunch?” she asks.

“Uhm,” Goldstein says. “Out.”

Seraphina raises an eyebrow and Goldstein curls in on herself slightly and looks down at her desk. She seems to finally notice the powdered sugar on her jacket, because she tries to brush it away with her hand.

“I was, I mean, I think,” Goldstein says, mumbling. 

Then her chin snaps up and she meets Seraphina’s eyes. “I went to see Mr. Graves, Madame President.”

She says it all very quickly, looking rather distressed.

Seraphina nods.

“And you’d be willing to put that in a report to Limus?” Seraphina asks.

She watches Goldstein swallow and she looks at Seraphina with what can only be described as “pitiful eyebrows.” She’s a bit like Percival, in a way, but also seems like the complete opposite most of the times Seraphina interacts with her.

“Yes,” Goldstein says, with her voice rising uncertainly at the end of the word.

The part of Seraphina Picquery that is the president of the Magical Congress of the United States of America thinks that an impulsive, but talented auror who has been caught up in the machinations of a dangerous criminal — and who shows an obvious bias for suspect wizards like Newt Scamander and Credence Barebone — before the age of 30 should be kept far from a powerful wizard whose identity was stolen by the same dangerous criminal and whose well being and loyalties remain unknown.

But the part of Seraphina Picquery that made every house at Ilvermorny want to call her its own, that part thinks: Well, at least Percival is having lunch with _someone_. 

She knows it’s not Porpentina Goldstein, obviously. The poor woman looks like she’s going to have a nervous fit from lying. But she’s committed to the lie.

And Seraphina can commit herself to believing it.

“How close to finished are you on the St. Louis case?” she asks Goldstein.

“Uh, close,” Goldstein says, nodding her head violently. “I’m just double checking my summaries for the numbers and dates.”

“Good,” Seraphina says. “I’ll let the Graves detail know you’ll be available soon.”

“What?” Goldstein says, staring with her mouth open. “I mean, what, Madame President?”

“I’m told it’s rather dull,” Seraphina says. “But if you have such an _interest_ , I don’t see why you shouldn’t be on the assignment. Stevens can bring you up to speed this afternoon.” 

For reasons that Seraphina does not wish to pursue, this makes Goldstein actually smile. It makes Seraphina linger there for a moment, but she couldn’t say why.

“File a report with Limus after you’re finished with the St. Louis case,” she says, before she turns to leave.

“Yes, Madame President,” Goldstein says, her voice sharp and bright.

A “Thank you!” follows Seraphina out into the hall.

At about this time of day, Percival Graves realizes he’s read the same sentence six times and it still doesn’t make sense. He keeps trying to translate it from the Latin, then realizing it’s actually in English. He has a very specific, sharp pain in his temple that tells him he’s had too much coffee and not enough sleep. It’s a pain, like the bone-deep ache in his leg and the numbness he gets in his wand arm up to the elbow, he feels more often than not.

He ignores it, the same way he ignores hunger until it makes black spots dance in his vision. 

Were he still the Director of Security for President Picquery, this would be more concerning. The body suffers from hunger and sleeplessness and injury, and magic has always felt like an extension of his body. But anything he would need to be at his physical peak for would also require a wand, which he still doesn’t have.

Percival gets up from the library desk and hears the bones in his knee grinding against each other. 

There’s no one around and he already spent an hour ensuring the wards were inviolate, so he’s confident that no one is spying on him in his apartment. Probably. Hopefully. This means he can lean on the desk and rub the heel of his hand against the top of his knee until his thigh stops spasming from pain.

He walks back and forth in the library until the pain fades, then he carries his empty coffee cup to the kitchen by hand simply to stretch his legs a bit more. He hasn’t bathed or shaved or dressed since Credence’s visit, and he wouldn’t have even done that much except… 

Except that he still has some pride left, somehow. Despite the universe’s great efforts to strip it all from him.

“Shit,” Percival says to no one. It’s the first word he’s spoken all day.

He doesn’t want to let himself think Credence will come back. 

It would have been better, he thinks, if Credence had left the country and left him thinking the young man was dead and gone. They would both be safer.

But the past few weeks have been enlightening in too many ways: Percival knows he’s not quite the man he thought he was. And Credence? Oh, he’s certainly not the man that Percival thought he was. 

He wonders sometimes if he was wrong about it all. Maybe Grindelwald killed him back in November and every moment since has been a Hell created just for Percival Graves.

But if the war didn’t make him a believer, he’s not going to let that psychopath sway him.

In this Hell, which is all too real, Percival Graves is a coward who weighs his fear of being alone against his fear of going outdoors every minute of every day. Here, Credence Barebone has survived torture, starvation, seduction, betrayal, destruction, and death. All of this Percival has either had a hand in doing or in failing to prevent. Here, Credence is a wizard and loves him, which is the sort of wild fantasy Percival used to conjure in the darkest corners of his mind when he was alone.

Oh, yes, Credence is a wizard and he came to Percival’s apartment all on his own and he sat right there in that chair in Percival’s sitting room. It would be like a sweet, sweet dream if Percival’s apartment didn’t feel like an empty tomb or an expansive jail cell. What things Grindelwald didn’t destroy out of nothing but sadistic joy, Percival has damaged in fits of his own anger.

He used to think himself so very, very different from men like Grindelwald. 

Percival limps into his bedroom to assess what he’s done. Thus far, he has resolutely chosen to ignore it. He broke the bed frame the first night he tried to sleep in here, so taken with violent nightmares. The rest he did out of anger at having cracked the bedpost right at its base.

Actually, the clothes came before that. Because he can’t stand looking at it all and wondering which pieces of clothing Grindelwald wore around the city the way he wore Percival’s face.

This sapphire blue shirt? This russet, silk-lined waistcoat? This lilac cravat? Actually, that cravat is kind of hideous.

Percival picks it up and reduces it to ash in his hand.

He thinks of Credence — he is often thinking of Credence, really — and how little he must have. No, it’s not charity. Percival would rather see Credence draped in one of his coats than in one of Tina Goldstein’s. There is nothing magnanimous about it. This urge isn’t kindness; it’s some twisted shape of jealousy. 

To banish this thing, Percival sorts through his clothing. 

Anything Credence doesn’t want, he can just burn.

By late afternoon, Percival stands in a room that looks like a proper bedroom. Ties have been coiled up and sorted by color. Shirts lay folded and creased by magic. He has separated trousers and jackets and waistcoats. He even paired every damn sock in the pile.

There’s a small mountain of ugly things he wouldn’t think to offer to anyone, let alone Credence. This, he burns with the snap of his fingers. He feels some weight lift off his shoulders as the clothes blacken and crumble to ash.

“I suppose I should replace those,” he says. He has two suits currently, and enough new socks and underwear to tide him over for days should he suddenly forget how to cast cleaning charms.

His body yearns to sleep, but Percival bathes instead and shaves his face. He combs his hair. He dons the suit he wore the day they ceremoniously unlocked his shackles for an eager, photograph-happy press.

He throws on a black coat with an even darker lining.

Then, he goes downstairs. It’s not the first time, but it is the second. He hates his apartment now, but he doesn’t want to leave it. His leg hurts when he goes down the stairs and his throat feels too tight.

“Good evening Mr. Percival,” Idaea says. “Are you going out?”

“Yes,” he says, thinking of how he will need gloves and scarves and new spats. He could use a few spare sets of garters.

He pushes his way out of the building and walks down the block.

MACUSA will have an auror watching him, and likely a few of Grindelwald’s faithful will also be very interested in his movements.

Percival ducks into the first alley he finds and apparates to Harlem. Then, before his stomach contents have totally settled, he disapparates to reappear in Astoria. He walks a few blocks to keep himself from heaving, then jumps over to Lennox Hill.

He’s still thinking of Credence, so his next move is to Chelsea — though nowhere near the Goldsteins’ block.

At the piers over the East River, Percival leans over a railing and finally vomits. There’s nothing in him except coffee and potions, but it won’t stay down. There’s sweat on the back of his neck when he next appears in Brooklyn Heights, on the other side of the bridge. 

Wandless apparition like this would kill a lesser man, so Percival tries to reassure himself that he is no less for having to walk again between Bed-Stuy and Williamsburg.

Then he jumps back to Midtown feeling more like a corpse than usual. He shakes himself and brushes some lint off the shoulder of his coat. A cold wind slicing between buildings wipes the sweat off his clean-shaven face.

Now, finally, Percival feels he can go shopping and he might have an hour or more before anyone starts following him again.

Down a particularly cold alley, Percival crosses behind a building and unlocks a metal gate with his magic. Squeezed into the middle of a Garment District block, a cobblestone street of shops fills the inside of a building. 

Not wanting his tailor to see him looking so wane, he goes directly to Eau de Twilight. Even the air that escapes through the tiny gaps in the window frame and under the door makes for a fragrant cacophony. Light scents of cedar and fresh-cut apples mix with vanilla and dark musk, perfuming the street outside.

The shop owner — a dark-haired woman with a nose that dominates her narrow face — turns around when he opens the door.

“Monsieur Graves,” she says. “You have not darkened my doorstep in many months.”

He feels a terrible relief. “I’ve been indisposed.”

“Indeed, monsieur,” she says. “How may I help you today?”

“I wondered if you might still have the shaving kit I bought here some years ago,” he tells her. “And I could use a bottle of my usual.”

“Of course,” she says. “As eau de parfum or eau de toilette?”

There is a small and petty pleasure in being able to find exactly what he wants and easily acquire it. It feels like success on a very small scale, and Percival Graves hasn’t felt anything like success in weeks.

He spends far more than he should on cologne, silk ties, and a set of muslin pajamas. In the end, he doesn’t see his tailor at all. It can wait until his body feels more like it belongs to him. He’ll be fine with two suits. Somehow.

That night, he doesn’t sleep in his bedroom — but he does sleep.

On Saturday morning, everyone in the Goldstein apartment has breakfast together in their pajamas. Newt and Queenie talk in bright tones about London and Credence and traveling. Tina quietly watches Credence from the corner of her eye.

She doesn’t have to be able to read minds to know that if she doesn’t make sure Credence can see Mr. Graves soon, he’s just going to go on his own — again. It’s not as though she could stop him and they both know it.

“We could go today,” she whispers, and Credence’s head jerks up.

He just looks at her.

Newt has a ticket for the Royal Star line that leaves Tuesday morning. Tina feels anxious about it and cannot even imagine how Credence feels. No doubt Newt just wants to go home.

Credence opens his mouth as though he wants to say something, when someone knocks on the door.

“Who is it?” Tina asks Queenie, but Queenie’s brow knits together.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Could be anybody.”

Tina’s shoulders stiffen up. She holds her wand tighter.

“I’ll go check,” she says.

“Go hide,” Queenie tells Newt and Credence, “in case it’s Mrs. Esposito.”

As she opens the door, Tina holds her wand in front of her at stomach level. It’s a good defensive position to block anything aimed at her body, but also a good spot to strike from.

“Miss Goldstein?” the woman at the door asks. She’s fashionably dressed, with a low waisted dress and a sharp jacket. The broach on her lapel is a glittering MACUSA seal for the president’s office. She has a matching decoration on the ribbon around her cloche hat.

“Yes?” Tina asks. As hard as she can, she thinks, “Get Credence out of here! Right now!”

“I am to understand that Mister Newton Scamander is staying with you?” the woman says. “I am seeking him on behalf of President Picquery.”

Tina doesn’t know if she believes that, but she says, “Yes, he’s here.”

“May I come in?” the woman asks.

“Just a second,” she says. “I’m not decent.”

And she shuts the door in the stranger’s face.

Tina can’t say anything to Queenie, of course, but they sure can make faces at each other just as effectively as they could when they were 5 and 8 years old. They throw their clothes on with magic as quickly as possible. There is a slight possibility that Newt, who is doing the same, sees more than Tina would really prefer. She certainly gets an eyeful of his bare back, which looks like a well-used butcher block with freckles.

Credence is nowhere to be seen and Tina can only hope he hasn’t already split for Mr. Graves’ apartment.

“He hasn’t,” Queenie hisses.

Tina shushes her, quietly.

“Good morning,” Tina says at the door, faking a smile. “Sorry to make you wait.”

“It’s no matter,” the woman says. “I’m Pansy Bryce, assistant to the office of the president.”

“Nice to meet you,” Tina says. “Come in.”

The woman steps in with a small attaché case that Tina doesn’t trust.

“President Picquery is concerned that Mr. Newton Scamander and his creatures remain in the country,” the woman says. “If it’s an issue of money, the president’s office is prepared to pay for a ticket.”

“I,” Newt starts. 

“He’s leaving Tuesday,” Tina says, when Newt doesn’t continue.

“Ah,” the woman says. “Good to know. In that case, the office would like to reimburse you, Mr. Scamander.”

“What?” he asks.

“Did you pay for your ticket in Dragots, Galleons or Dollars?” she asks.

The attaché case comes down on Tina’s kitchen table and pops open to reveal quite a lot of cash and coin.

“Oh my god,” Tina thinks, but wisely keeps her mouth shut.

“Now, you could show me the receipt for your ticket,” the woman says. “But I’m not sure that’s necessary. All three of you are heroes, after all. Aren’t you?”

Tina looks at her sister, who is chewing the inside of her lip.

Newt isn’t saying anything, and Tina could easily speak up for him. She could exaggerate just a little — the ticket was bought at the last minute and then they had to change it because of the trial. So what if Newt actually got a great deal? Picquery doesn’t know that. This woman is practically inviting them to take her money.

They could use it to help Credence, Tina thinks. He needs proper clothes, a scarf, books of his own, a wand. 

“One hundred and twenty dollars,” Tina says, which is the honest truth.

“I can get the receipt,” Newt says. “And, if you must, I would prefer to get Galleons over dollars.”

“Of course,” the woman says. She writes something down and a sum appears on the paper.

“That would be… I’ll round it to 17 Galleons,” she says.

“You don’t have to do that,” Newt says, already out of his chair and ready to disappear to get the receipt.

“It is the president’s honor,” the woman says, counting out the gold coins on the table.

When she’s done, she snaps the case closed.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Scamander,” she says. “I’ll be going now.”

And, despite all of Tina’s mistrust, she does go.

Tina stares at her sister, who stares back, for a long moment. 

“Was that as unusual as it seemed?” Newt asks.

“Yeah,” Queenie says.

“Where is Credence?” Tina finally asks. “Tell me he’s not in the case, if they had confiscated it again —”

“He went out the fire escape,” Queenie says. “He’s waiting in the alley wearing like three coats.”

“Oh,” Tina says. “Oh no!”

She yanks on some shoes and runs down the stairs to collect him.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “That was just the weirdest thing and the woman was from the president’s office. I didn’t want her to find you. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Again,” Tina thinks. 

“I suppose I’ll have to get used to adventures,” Credence says, “if I’m going to London.”

Tina bursts into a laugh which makes Credence smile slightly.

“Come on upstairs,” she says. “I wanna tell you my plan to get you to Mr. Graves.”

This is Tina Goldstein’s plan: First, she will apparate to the building across from Mr. Graves’ Park Avenue apartment. She will offer to take over for whoever is on duty, who will be happy to let her take over because apparently everyone hates this assignment. Then, she’ll apparate back to get Newt and Credence.

“Then, I mean, I might be feeling a bit ragged, but the three of us can apparate back across town,” she says.

“Should Credence be using apparition?” Newt asks. “It’s incredibly taxing even for… For normal wizards.”

Tina blanches, because she’s already apparated with Credence and she never even thought of that.

“I’ve already done it,” Credence says. “A few times.”

“And there were no ill effects?” Newt asks.

“Are there usually?” Credence asks.

“Well, most people vomit,” Newt tells him. “But there can be more serious side-effects. It’s not the prefered mode of transport in Europe the way it seems to be here.”

“Queenie said I might throw up,” Credence says, “but I didn’t.”

“Oh,” Newt says. “Well then, I suppose that plan works.”

“Alright,” Tina says, then lays out the rest: Credence will spend however long he wants with Mr. Graves and Tina and Newt will make sure that no dark wizards get any bright ideas in the meantime.

“I thought we were going to go to the park?” Newt asks.

“Well we can do that from the park,” Tina says. “I think.”

“You should get something to eat, too,” Queenie says. “While you’re out. Together.”

She smiles at Tina in a way that makes Tina frown.

“You could come with us,” Newt says, to Queenie.

It’s a little disappointing, Tina finds, but not surprising. Is it?

“Oh, I’ve already got plans,” she says. 

“Ah,” Newt says, and ducks his head so he doesn’t have to look any of them in the eye.

“When can we go?” Credence asks.

“Right now,” Tina says. “If you want.”

“I think I should get dressed first,” he says.

“Oh,” she says. “Of course.”

The biggest potential flaw in this plan is that, of course, it assumes Percival Graves will be at home.

When Tina arrives at the lookout — a lovely penthouse across the street from the building Mr. Graves lives in — there’s no one there. She goes outside again and looks around. Getting desperate, she ducks in through the door and asks the painting that serves as the doorman.

“Who are you, again, miss?” the nymph asks.

“Porpentina Goldstein,” she says. “I was here a week ago, with Credence. We saw Mr. Graves.”

“I’m afraid I don’t remember you or anyone named Credence,” the nymph says. 

“He was here on Thursday!” Tina insists. “About this tall, kind of pale and he slouches.”

“Really sharp cheekbones?” the nymph asks.

“Yes!” Tina says, letting her excitement get the best of her.

“No idea, miss, never seen anyone like that around here,” the painting says. “Very sorry.”

It would be incredibly rude to swear at a painting, Tina knows, and it really wouldn’t help her case.

“Look, I know you remember him,” Tina says. “If I was asking for _him_ , would you tell me where Mr. Graves went?” 

“Miss, I’m afraid I simply can’t tell you anything like that,” the nymph says.

When the door opens behind her, Tina whirls on her heel with her wand at the ready.

She finds herself pointing it right at the man she’s looking for.

“Goldstein,” Mr. Graves says, reaching out with one hand to aim her wand away from his chest.

“Mr. Graves,” she says, dropping her arm and tucking her wand back into her pocket.

He has paper-wrapped groceries tucked under his arm and a bag in his hand. 

“Were you out shopping, sir?” she asks.

“Obviously,” he says.

The longer he stares at her, the more nerve Tina loses. She chews on the inside of her lip and tries to look at anything but his expression.

“She was looking for you, Mr. Percival,” the painting says, from behind Tina’s shoulder.

Tina looks up guiltily. 

“I was just, uh, I was looking for you,” she says. “But! But I was just hoping you were at home, because… Uh, a friend of mine wanted to visit you.”

Mr. Graves raises his eyebrows a little, which makes him not look so very annoyed with her.

“Which friend of yours, Goldstein?” he asks.

“A friend,” she says, uncertain.

Mr. Graves looks over her shoulder. “Idaea, did Miss Goldstein mention anything else?”

“Yes, Mr. Percival,” the nymph says. “She said she was calling on you on behalf of Mr. Credence.”

“Ah,” Mr. Graves says, nodding. “A friend.”

He goes to the door, which swings open at the wave of his hand. 

“Wait, Mr. Graves!” Tina says, taking two steps forward, but not quite ready to chase him up the stairs.

“Goldstein,” he says, “I trust you.”

And then he shuts the door in her face.

She stands in the lobby for a moment, looking at the door and the ficus. After a few seconds tick by on her pocket watch, Tina turns on her heel to glare at the painting of a Cretan nymph.

“You,” she says. “You said you didn’t know who Credence was.”

“I lied, Miss Tina,” the painting says. “You don’t live here, and I’ve got to protect Mr. Percival.”’

There’s really nothing to be said to that, so Tina huffs out a breath and goes outside. She crosses the street and gets to the penthouse lookout on foot. Finally, her plan can go into motion.

In his sixth floor apartment, Percival Graves wonders how long he has before Credence Barebone arrives. Minutes? Hours? 

He has oscillated in the past few days between preparing in expectation of a visit and total certainty that Credence is too smart to come back. But the small interactions he’s had with shopkeepers and strangers reassure him. He has noticed people following him, but he can easily lose them — and has when he wanted to.

After putting away the groceries, Percival considers what else he should do. He’s cleared the kitchen table and begun to contemplate whether he should shave when Idaea announces that he has visitors.

Clearly, Credence didn’t walk this time.

“Who is it?” he asks.

“It’s Credence, sir,” that soft voice says, amplified to echo through every room of Percival’s apartment. It feels like a hallucination; something too impossible for reality.

“Miss Goldstein and Mr. Scamander escorted me,” he says, and Percival wonders if that means they’re here as well. He doesn’t ask.

“I’ll be right down,” he says, and throws his scarf up onto the hook across the room.

The stairs give him enough of a challenge that Percival doesn’t think terribly about what Goldstein must be thinking to drag another person into this. Clearly, she trusts Scamander. Percival is inclined to do so as well, but he has never met the man.

Well, he may yet.

Percival opens the door to the lobby and finds three witches, all of them tall and skinny and unwilling to meet his eyes. Tina wears an overly large coat and a blouse she’s simply drowning in, while Scamander wears the exact thing he wore every day Percival saw him in court. He’s now certain the man doesn’t own any other clothes — and these don’t match. 

And Credence, Credence who always wore ragged and ill-fitting clothes and kept his head down and his shoulders hunched. He looks up at Percival then, almost shyly. He’s wearing a plain white shirt and a black jacket and waistcoat that fit him well — as well as a dark blue tie that’s held in place by Percival’s pin. It’s the only touch of color on him: the tie and the pin.

“I should have taken the time to shave,” Percival thinks.

“Good morning, Miss Goldstein, Mr. Barebone,” he says. They both look at him, as if they’re waiting for something. Should he invite the three of them up for coffee? He doesn’t want to.

“And you must be Mr. Scamander,” Percival says, stepping close enough to offer his hand.

The man glances at him, but then looks at Tina, of all people.

Tina looks at Scamander and — oh, of course.

“Yes, ah, you can call me Newt,” the man says, while still looking to Tina. He briefly looks at Percival when he holds his hand tight enough to startle him. They both have rough hands, all callous and scar tissue, Percival notes. Newt squeezes his hand back and, though he’s the gangliest of the three of them, he’s no weakling.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Percival says. 

“And you as well,” Newt says. “The real you this time.”

“Thank you for that,” Percival says, hoping his malice doesn’t come through in his words. It likely does.

He lets go of Newt’s hand and the man tucks it into his coat.

There’s a bowtruckle in his pocket, Percival notes. If he were still the Director of Law Enforcement for MACUSA, he might care.

As it is, Percival wonders how he can get Newt and Tina to leave so he can have Credence to himself. He looks over and watches the way the light catches on his pin on Credence’s chest. When he lifts his eyes to Credence’s face, the man is looking right at him. Percival feels a tug at the corner of his mouth.

“Well,” Tina says. “I think we should get going, shouldn’t we, Newt?”

Is he being so obvious? 

Does he care?

“Yes,” Newt says, very quickly. He offers one smile to Percival and another, much softer one to Tina. No, Percival decides, he really does not care.

“Credence,” he says, offering his arm. 

The move makes Credence raise his eyebrows a bit, barely anything that would be noticed if Percival wasn’t looking for it. But he puts a hand on Percival’s forearm, near the elbow, and his hand is not cold.

Percival almost considers telling Tina to have a good time, but he doesn’t. After he’s pushed through the door and held it open for Credence, the young man asks him, “Were you being rude to them?”

“Why do you think that?” Percival asks.

“You didn’t ask them how they are,” Credence says. “Or even say goodbye.”

“I don’t care,” Percival says. “But how have you been, Credence?”

“Well,” Credence says, as though he didn’t answer exactly the same when he was living in a ramshackle church with a woman who beat him.

“You’re leaving soon, then,” Percival says. “This week.”

“Yes,” Credence says. “Tuesday.”

“That’s very soon,” Percival says.

This, therefore, may be his last chance to see Credence, perhaps ever. If he had known he might never see Credence again, all those weeks ago, what would he have done? Brought him to his apartment and fed him, most likely.

“Would you like some coffee?” Percival asks, as they reach the fourth floor. 

The next place Percival lives will have fewer neighbors and no stairs, if he can help it. He wants a brownstone he can turn into a personal fortress. Maybe the Ghost has a listing for one of those.

“Thank you, sir,” Credence says.

“You shouldn’t thank me until you’ve tasted my coffee,” Percival says. “Maybe you’ll hate it. I’m told it’s very strong.”

“I like strong coffee,” Credence says.

“You can always add sugar, if it’s too much,” Percival says.

He opens the door with magic, and Credence follows him directly to the kitchen. Percival waves the cupboard doors open, measures out enough coffee for both of them into a metal pitcher that boils water at the snap of Percival’s fingers.

He takes his jacket off and turns to Credence.

“Could I take your coat?” he asks.

Credence blinks before he answers and Percival finds himself watching the curl of the man’s eyelashes.

“Yes,” he says, and takes off the grey coat and then the black jacket beneath it. He holds both out to Percival and he doesn’t need to, but Percival steps close to take them by hand.

“Don’t let the coffee overboil,” he says. “Please.”

“Yes, sir,” Credence says.

Percival steps out of the kitchen to hang the jackets and coat only because, without a wand, his aim isn’t quite what it should be. He has to see where he’s tossing the clothes to make sure they land on the coatrack. The black jacket Credence was wearing has obvious repairs at the elbows and cuffs, but it’s a sight better than anything the man used to wear. Percival desperately wants to foist his own clothes onto Credence.

When he comes back to the kitchen, Credence leans against the counter and peeks into Percival’s cupboards. Percival wills himself to be very still and very quiet. The back of his waistcoat is silk, with an obvious mark where Credence has let out the waist to fit his frame. From the seams, it’s not a women’s vest, but Percival would still guess this outfit is one of Tina’s. Credence had mentioned that she gave him a black jacket.

Percival never imagined he’d be jealous of Goldstein. But then again, there’s many things he never imagined.

Credence uses his magic quite naturally and holds himself more comfortably as well, at least until he notices he’s being watched.

“You’re back,” he says, and his shoulders tense up.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Percival says. “Consider my kitchen to be your domain, if you wish.”

Credence gives him a look that’s nearly a frown. Was that the wrong thing to say?

“Would you like something to eat?” he asks, getting ready to press the grounds out of the coffee with a metal press and a touch of magic. He has a rather ridiculous-looking coffee pot and matching mugs which are meant to look like purple gems — a Solstice gift from Seraphina. But he also has his mother’s china. Credence seems like he would much prefer Mrs. Graves’ taste.

“I’m not hungry,” Credence says, as Percival pulls the boiling, filtered coffee from the metal pot to the porcelain one. He pours two very full cups.

“Is there anything else you’d like?” Percival asks, as Credence’s cup slides across the counter towards him.

“I think you know,” Credence says, picking up his cup of coffee.

He looks at Percival as he lifts the cup to his mouth and blows the steam off the top.

Percival nearly forgets to cool his coffee before he takes a swallow, and it would really be a shame if he burned his tongue before he could do anything else with it.

“I don’t know, Credence,” he says.

Credence sips his coffee and then nods his head.

“You kept many secrets from me,” he says, “and I kept many of my own. But I don’t think we’re strangers to each other, Percival.”

“We aren’t,” Percival says.

When Credence looks at him now, Percival feels a stronger compulsion to the truth than even veritaserum gave him.

“I wasn’t honest with myself, when we met,” Percival says. “But I know myself better now, even if it’s for the worse, and I would like to get to know you as well, the whole you.”

Credence sips his coffee.

“Does it need sugar?” Percival asks.

“No,” Credence says, though his lips curl unhappily with every sip.

“When did you know you had magic?” he asks Percival.

“I always knew,” Percival says. “It’s in my family, the Graveses were some of the first witches to come to America.”

“When did you first use it?” Credence asks, without blinking.

“I hardly remember,” he answers. “When I was very young. I remember my mother taught me the _Lumos_ spell when I was very, very young, because I was afraid — I was afraid of the dark. This was before I could even read. It was a wandless spell, of course, I had to relearn the simplest spells when I got a wand in school.” 

“Ilvermorny?” Credence asks.

“Yes,” Percival says. “Horned Serpent, Class of 1904.”

Of course, in 1904, Credence was likely a small child — younger than Percival was when he learned his first spell.

“I think I first used magic to tear the dress of a girl who went to church with me,” Credence says. “She called me ugly, and then the skirt of her dress tore right at the waist.”

Credence sips his coffee. “I never touched her, but Ma didn’t believe me. It terrified me to think that I had done it without even touching her.”

Percival takes a long swallow of his coffee as Credence finally looks away from him.

“After that, the Obscurus appeared to me,” Credence says. “I didn’t know what it was. I suppose that I thought it was the Holy Spirit.”

“Have you told anyone else this?” Percival asks.

“Partly,” Credence says. “Newt has asked me many questions about it. But he doesn’t even know what the Holy Spirit is.”

Percival barely knows, but he’s not going to ask. It’s a matter of Credence’s religion. Really, Percival’s a bit astonished that Credence can even use magic so easily. But they did kiss long before either of them admitted to magic, and Percival understands that’s not exactly embraced by the Puritanical sort.

“Ma thought she was a prophet,” he continues, “and that made me the son of a prophet. Do you care about any of this?”

“I care about you,” Percival says.

“I don’t want to care about it anymore,” Credence says. “But I don’t know how to stop.”

He’s speaking of something completely separate from Percival’s own experiences, but the words feel like something taken right out of his own head.

“I wish I knew how to advise you,” Percival says. But he also wishes he could stop caring about many, many things.

“I'm not looking for advice,” Credence says. “I want something else.”

He looks at Percival over his coffee mug and it's the kind of look that Credence has always given him. The man keeps his head bowed, but has a way of looking up through his lashes at Percival and it's as though he's been stripped bare.

What are the limits of an Obscurial’s powers? How far does Credence outstrip even that? How much magic that's meant to be hidden from No-Maj eyes has Credence seen and, no doubt, been beaten for seeing?

It leaves Percival dizzy to contemplate.

“I want you to kiss me, Percival,” Credence says. “Though the coffee is good — strong, as you said.”

Percival moves closer to Credence.

“You're bolder today,” he says, reaching out to touch Credence’s cheek. There's a faint scar below his eye and Percival traces its line with his thumb.

“Bolder than you've ever been.”

“I'm leaving soon,” Credence says. “I won't be able to send you kisses in my letters.”

“With your words?” Percival says. “I'm sure you could.”

“Did you feel all the kisses I wanted to give you through our old letters?” Credence asks, while their mouths are only inches apart.

“I kept them,” Percival says. “Didn’t I?”

Credence closes the space between them, pressing his mouth against Percival’s. When he pulls away, Percival finds himself leaning into a kiss that’s been ended. His lips part on empty air for a moment, before Credence takes pity on him and kisses him again. He tastes coffee on Credence’s lips.

His fingertips trace the shape of Credence’s ear, feeling the short hairs growing into spaces that used to be shaved clean. Credence puts warm hands on Percival’s face and he could melt between them. He rubs his palms against Percival’s whiskers and lets Percival taste the inside of his hot mouth.

When he pulls away, his heart feels like it could beat its way out of his chest.

“Should I have shaved?” Percival asks.

“No,” Credence says, still touching his face. His eyes are so, so dark that Percival feels lost in them.

“Perhaps I could grow a beard,” he jokes.

“No,” Credence says, then kisses him in a way Percival recognizes as shutting him up. He turns and leans against the kitchen counter and Credence follows, standing close but not close enough to push him against the counter. Percival puts a hand around Credence’s ribs to draw him in, but Credence slips away. Percival feels the silk of Credence’s waistcoat even once he’s a foot away.

“Sorry,” Credence says, ducking his head.

“No, no,” Percival says. “I want you to… I only want you to do what you want, Credence.”

Credence looks at him with his head still down, that intense stare that’s up through his dark lashes. Percival feels pinned in place by that look.

“What I want?” Credence asks.

“Only that,” Percival says, meaning it more than he thinks he meant his oath of office when he took it.

“What about what you want, Percival?” Credence asks. “Don’t you want more than kisses?”

This isn’t exactly the conversation he wants to have in the kitchen, so Percival grabs a coffee cup — it might be Credence’s actually — and takes a quick swig.

“Actually, I was hoping to unburden some of my things onto you,” he says. “If you’ll take them.”

Reaching up, Credence touches the pin in his tie. “You’ve already given me more than I need.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Percival says. “You’ll take Goldstein’s spare clothes and not mine? I won’t have it.”

Something about his words, or maybe the way he waves his coffee cup at Credence’s outfit, makes the man narrow his eyes at Percival. His mouth is red and wet; he looks displeased.

Percival carefully steps around him as he walks out of the kitchen. He would tell Credence to follow him, but he doesn’t want to push his luck too much. If Credence wants to follow him, then he will.

Before Percival reaches the library that leads to his bedroom, he hears Credence’s shoes stomping across the wood floor. By the time he’s through his bedroom door, Credence’s long legs have caught up with him.

“You cleaned,” he says.

“I did,” Percival says. “This time I was expecting your company.”

“My company?” Credence repeats back at him, like a question.

“Yours and only yours,” Percival says.

Credence looks at him from the corner of his eye, before his eyes dart away to look over the room. He holds himself tensely, his hands curled into fists where a minute ago they were rubbing the hair on Percival’s jaw.

“You can have any of it,” Percival says.

Credence gives him another skeptical glance. “Of what?”

Percival throws his arm out to encompass the piles of shirts and ties and trousers and waistcoats and robes. Then he sips his coffee, which might be Credence’s coffee.

“Are you well, Percival?” Credence asks.

He can only shrug. “I hate to think of you leaving New York with nothing to wear.”

“I have things to wear,” Credence says, sounding quite defensive.

“Obviously,” Percival says. “But…”

Finding some small, open spot to set down his coffee cup on the dresser, Percival moves close enough to Credence that their shoulders might touch.

“I would like to think,” he says, turning toward Credence’s ear, “of you leaving New York with my clothes on your back.”

Credence turns his head suddenly and sharply. He looks at Percival with slightly wider eyes, looking at his face, but also the rest of him.

“Why?” Credence asks.

Percival doesn’t know how to explain himself to Credence. Should he just admit that it’s because he’s jealous? That he feels like a dog and — well, Percival still hasn’t mentioned the other gifts he got Credence: the razor and brush, the cologne, the stationary.

“Is it so you can find me again?” Credence asks, and Percival can only scowl at that.

“No,” he says.

Percival shakes his head and steps away from Credence, sensing that whatever thoughts are battering around in his head they won’t be helped by Percival crowding him.

“In fact,” Percival says, “pick a coat and I’ll enchant it so you’re even harder to find, for me or anyone.”

This almost makes Credence smile, the corners of his mouth moving slightly.

“I suppose I could take a coat,” he says.

As Percival watches, Credence goes to the repaired doors of the bureau. He keeps his hands careful inches from touching anything as he looks over the sum of Percival’s last decade spent trying to impress New York’s wizarding elite. He doesn’t have nearly the collection that Seraphina has, but he also doesn’t travel quite as much and, of course, doesn’t have to wear heels.

Credence’s hand shakes slightly before he touches the sleeve of one of Percival’s coats. It’s black — all but one of his coats is black — with a white lining and blue stitching that looks brighter than Percival had envisioned it would against the black. It’s nearly the same cut and style, Percival realizes, as the coat they arrested Grindelwald in.

“This one,” Credence says, taking the coat off its cedar hanger and holding it.

“Go ahead,” Percival says. “Try it on.”

He finds himself wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue as Credence swings the coat carefully around himself and slides one arm into the sleeve. The bespoke cuffs of Percival’s coat fall short on Credence’s arms, but it fits him well otherwise. The blue matches his current tie rather well.

Credence buttons the coat shut and looks at Percival with a small smile on his lips.

“You look like a completely different man,” Percival says. “A proper wizard.”

The little smile grows. “Like you?”

“Oh, you look much better than I do in it,” Percival says, because Credence has twice the structure in his face and ten times less hair growing out of it.

Credence snorts.

“You should pick out an outfit to go with the coat,” Percival says. “A week of outfits.”

The skeptical look comes back, but Credence doesn’t stop smiling.

“I’ll take the thing and cast something powerful on it, if you’ll allow,” Percival adds.

Credence takes off the coat and, with very little effort, it flies into Percival’s waiting hand.

“Would you do it here?” Credence asks, as Percival goes to grab his coffee cup and head back to the kitchen.

Percival looks at Credence, and Credence looks back at him. Neither of them blinks.

“Pick out some other things to keep,” Percival says, and tosses the coat onto the bed. “I’ll be right back.”

He doesn’t plan to cast just one charm and, technically, some of what he intends to do might be considered illegal enchantment of an object with intent to deceive authorities. Percival has seen a great many witches who wanted to hide from MACUSA and the Ministry — some of them even succeeded. Then there’s all the charms he remembers from his childhood, the things his mother whispered as she kissed the top of his head. He gathers dry ingredients and a candle from the kitchen and drags them through the air with him back into the bedroom.

As Credence carefully looks through Percival’s shirts, he lights the candle.

Credence watches him, but he doesn’t say anything as Percival mutters in Latin and Old English.

It’s the kind of magic that’s easier with a wand, because there’s power in a wand. All the power behind these spells has to come out of Percival’s blood and bones. It requires something from him that he doesn’t think he would willingly give for anyone but Credence.

“Don’t let this happen to him ever again,” he thinks, as he tells his magic what to do and forces it into the soft wool of the coat.

His mother told him that protection charms require love. What he feels likely can’t compare to the love she had for her children, but it’s all he has.

Likely, the world’s oldest living Obscurial doesn’t need the protection charms of a paranoid old man. But what if he does?

“I like these,” Credence says, when Percival has finished and the candle has burned itself down to a lump of wax in its holder.

“Then have them,” Percival says, glancing up at the pile of fabric — auburn and white and black, even something with blue and white stripes. “Have them all.”

“Shouldn’t I try them on?” Credence asks.

Percival looks at him and splotches of pink rise up in Credence’s very high cheekbones.

“If you want,” he says. “I can… get out of your way.”

“You could stay,” Credence says, before Percival has pushed himself off the bed. He really needs to stretch his aching leg, though, so he does stand up. The tops of Credence’s ears have gone red.

“I don’t mind,” he adds, setting the shirts in his arms down on the bed where Percival was only a second before.

“Alright,” Percival says. “I’m not leaving.”

He paces, but his bedroom’s big enough for the both of them to move around. Credence doesn’t look at him. In fact, he turns his back completely as he takes off his tie and waistcoat. He folds both and sets them carefully on the bed. He slips his suspenders off his shoulders and Percival notices his blush creeping around to the back of his neck. It’s incredibly charming, Percival thinks, and he’d like to kiss the space behind Credence’s ear if he didn’t think the man would jump out of his skin at a single touch.

His whole body is held rigid and tense as he takes his shirt off, but it’s not as though he’s really baring much skin. Mostly, he bares the plain white underwear that covers his back and part of his arms.

But Percival still looks, thinking of how he’d like to kiss the bones of Credence’s wrists and the pale skin right above his elbows. He also would very much like to see that Credence has three square meals a day until the bones of his ribs aren’t so apparent in the width of his chest.

Credence slips into the blue and white stripped shirt, which has a much broader collar than it seems he’s used to. He buttons himself up and tucks the shirt in, putting on a pale blue tie that Percival barely recognizes as his own.

Credence’s shoulders fill out the shirt, but the rest of him doesn’t.

Percival’s waistcoat fits him much the same.

“You’ll have to have it taken in,” Percival says.

“Yes,” Credence says.

He swallows and Percival thinks of how that collar, on Credence, begs for decoration.

“This isn’t working,” Credence says, “is it?”

“What isn’t working?” Percival asks.

Credence goes from pink to red. Percival has already started mentally tucking in the seams of the shirt and sees how Credence could look exceptionally tall and slim in stripes. It would help if he relaxed, of course, but Percival doesn’t expect that much. He’s sort of surprised that Credence would undress at all with him in the room.

“Don’t you want more from me?” Credence asks, his voice pitching upwards with strain.

“Is that what this is about still?” Percival asks. He can feel heat rising up in his throat, but it’s not embarrassment so much as it is self-hatred.

“I told you to forget that,” he says, when Credence remains quiet. “I want this, exactly this, and anything else you want — I’m happy to offer.”

“Oh,” Credence says, ducking his head.

Percival wonders if he’s made some error, then. Has he disappointed Credence? He’s not about to push Credence into something more physical than he wants, not when he still slips away from unexpected touches and holds himself like he’s afraid to move his arms too much. Of course, he fantasizes about kissing the caution out of Credence.

But he also fantasizes about keeping Credence here in America, in his apartment.

He still fantasizes that his mother is alive; other times he fantasizes about killing Gellert Grindelwald with his bare hands.

All of that is to say, Percival Graves has a lot of fantasies that are simply impossible or unreasonable. He knows it. He puts those things aside in his mind. He always has.

“You should try it with the coat,” Percival says, lifting the thing up by magic.

Credence easily slides in, and the cuffs of his shirt also fall a bit short of his wrists. He should have a pair of gloves, Percival thinks, but he doubts his own would fit Credence.

“It doesn’t feel any different,” Credence says, with obvious disappointment.

“It shouldn’t,” Percival says. “The best magic isn’t anything obvious.”

Credence frowns.

“I think you look very charming in my coat,” Percival says. “And certainly, better than I do in stripes.”

“I noticed you have more shirts with spots,” Credence says. “And little symbols embroidered in.”

“Sigils,” Percival says.

“I think I prefer stripes,” Credence says.

“I’m certain I have more striped ties,” Percival says. He goes to look, because his own thoughts weigh heavily on his chest and his leg hurts.

He’s barely started looking when Credence’s hand lands between his shoulder blades and Percival freezes.

“I don’t want more ties,” Credence says, his breath against the back of Percival’s neck.

Percival sighs.

“What do you want?” he asks.

“I’m not sure,” Credence says. “I think I want to kiss you again.”

When Percival turns, Credence is so close to him and there’s still pink in his cheeks. His lips are already slightly parted and it makes Percival’s mouth ache to kiss him.

“I can do that,” Percival says.

He turns and Credence moves into the space Percival creates with his body. He puts an arm around Percival’s waist and the other around his neck, like he wants to wrap himself around him. There are so many layers of Percival’s clothing between them. Percival kisses Credence with his mouth open and lets Credence kiss him back.

He’s gentle at first, but then Credence’s arm tightens around his neck and his kiss deepens right to the back of Percival’s throat. He feels short of breath.

Percival breaks the kiss not because he wants to, but because he feels devoured. Credence’s lips scrape his cheek, wet against his stubble. Percival kisses Credence’s cheek in return, then finds the scar at the corner of Credence’s jaw and kisses that. His ear is right there, then, and Credence holds him so tightly. Percival kisses the smooth-shaved skin between Credence’s ear and jaw, then the softness of his earlobe. Credence gasps.

He holds Percival even tighter, his fingers digging hard into his back.

Percival wants to kiss the space on Credence’s neck above the collar of his shirt. But he would need more space to move and he doesn’t want to push Credence away, not now.

Credence tucks his nose into the space between Percival’s collar and his own arm, breathing hotly against Percival’s neck.

Suddenly, he bites down. He bites Percival’s shirt collar and skin all the same.

Then he scrambles back, wide-eyed. Credence looks at him as though he’s been startled.

“Sorry,” he says. “I don’t know why I did that.”

Percival puts a hand back on his dresser and lets it take his weight.

“It’s fine,” Percival says. “I think I enjoyed it, though it was over rather fast.”

Credence still looks quite red in the face as he holds his arms stiffly at his sides.

“I think the rest of the clothes will fit you,” Percival says. “Though you’ll want to take them in. Maybe let the hems out of the pants, if you’re keeping any.”

“I’m not that much taller than you,” Credence says.

“Yes, but you’ve got longer legs,” Percival says. He takes an opportunity to look Credence up and down, while he still can.

“Don’t worry, that’s a compliment,” he adds.

“Could I have one more?” Credence asks.

Percival doesn’t even get a chance to say something sharp, like “Another compliment, of course, Credence, you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever met.”

Because Credence sweeps into Percival’s space again, the tails of the coat moving around his long legs, and presses his mouth against Percival’s.

“Yes,” Percival says, after Credence has pulled away again.

“Thank you,” Credence says, as though Percival shouldn’t be thanking him.

“I have something else I wanted to give you,” Percival says. “You might want to change back into Goldstein’s shirt, lest she get the wrong idea.”

He smirks a little when Credence flushes again. It’s something new, really. He wasn’t about to pull Credence into some dark, dirty alley and see how far he could get. That wouldn’t have been fair to the man, and Percival had — honestly, he really had wanted to help.

But he had wanted other things as well.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, and leaves the room rubbing his mouth.

He’s kept the things he wanted to give to Credence in the library, because he’s been sleeping there. It seemed to make sense. Now he easily picks it all up and carries it back into his bedroom. He can't have been gone more than a minute.

But Credence sits on the edge of his bed with his waistcoat open and his shirt half-undone. Percival can see the shine on the buttons of Credence’s underclothes.

Percival looks, of course he does. He's not pretending to be righteous, just moderately respectful. He looks Credence over from his flushed cheeks to his open shirt to his long legs. Credence is aroused, as any man his age might be from being kissed and caressed. He feels a jolt of pride more than arousal, the satisfaction of having this lovely man just as Percival had always dreamed: hard and flushed and disheveled in his bed.

Credence pulls his shirt closed with both hands and doesn't meet Percival’s eyes.

“Here,” Percival says, holding the gifts out as an offering. “I wanted to give you something to remember me by.”

Credence looks up at him with his head tilted down, so that he's looking up through his eyelashes again. It's quite a sight, given the state he's in. Percival feels his heart pounding inside his chest.

“And stationary,” he adds. “For those letters you're going to write me.”

The unbuttoned shirt falls open as soon as Credence reaches out to take the gifts from Percival’s hands.

Nothing has been wrapped, but the shaving kit and cologne remain in the boxes they were purchased in. Credence sets it all in his lap, and Percival takes the opportunity to look.

He swallows, thinking of so many things he might like to do. Perhaps he could go to his knees and offer his mouth to Credence as another parting gift.

Percival takes a deep breath and tucks his hands in his pockets so that he might keep them to himself.

“It's wonderful,” Credence says of the stationary set, which is really quite ordinary.

“The pen,” Percival says, taking his hand out of his pocket because he must talk with his hands. “It won't run out of ink, not ever. That's why there's no bottle or ink well.”

Credence smiles, a small thing. “Thank you, Percival.”

“You wanted to write,” Percival says.

“Yes,” Credence says. “I will.”

He sets the stationary down and opens the box with the bottle of cologne inside. Credence’s lips part slightly as he looks at the bottle and he wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. Removing the stopper, Credence lifts the bottle to his nose and sniffs.

“Oh,” he says, and then looks up at Percival.

There's no good in denying it. “I wasn't sure what might suit you, so I got my own preference.”

That's a half-lie, but Percival doesn't care to explain the truth.

“I like it,” Credence says. “Thank you.”

He carefully puts the bottle back just as it was inside the box, but now he's looking at Percival. Percival looks right back at him, drinking in the angles of Credence’s body with every intent of memorizing them.

He watches Credence open the last box with careful hands.

“Is this the same as yours as well?” Credence asks, looking over the kit inside its leather-bound box.

“Yes,” Percival says.

Credence smiles.

“I don't know how I can accept all of this from you,” he says.

“I must insist that you do,” Percival tells him.

Credence glances up. “Because you owe me a debt?”

“No,” he says, because he has far less selfless reasons. “It would be uncivilized of me not to offer you something before you go. It might as well be things you can use.”

“Should I offer you something, then?” Credence asks. “Am I being uncivilized?”

“Not at all,” Percival says.

Credence looks him up and down in a way that makes Percival stand up a little straighter, as though he's being well considered. Then Credence moves all the gifts off his lap and onto the bed.

“I'd like to kiss you again,” Credence says.

“Would that help you accept the gifts and clothes?” Percival says.

“Yes,” Credence says, with a slight smile. “I think it would.”

When he steps closer to Credence, the man meets him nearly nose to nose.

There's a powerful temptation in Percival to put his arm around Credence and yank him in, but he has a feeling it would startle the boy right out of his arms.

Unexpectedly, Credence leans back slightly.

“It's difficult to see you, when we're standing so close,” Credence says. He smiles broadly enough then that Percival can see the way it softens his cheeks and pinches the skin under his eyes. The very bottoms of his front teeth appear between his lips.

Percival finds himself smiling back, though it seems strange that Credence wants to look at him — his face hardly feels like it fits anymore after someone else has been wearing it. His eyes itch with heat and he blinks away the sensation.

Credence puts a hand to his cheek, reminding Percival that he's unshaven as well as morose today.

But then Credence leans forward and kisses him. He presses three light, chaste kisses to Percival’s mouth in quick succession. Then he lets himself linger, and Percival opens his mouth to allow Credence to kiss him as deeply as he pleases.

When Credence leans into him, it becomes necessary to brace himself on something. He puts an arm around Credence without thinking, pulling their bodies flush together.

Credence yanks himself away just as suddenly as before, in a way that leaves Percival stumbling back a step. Credence looks at him with very wide eyes and a very wet, red mouth.

“Sorry,” Percival says. “I don’t want to —”

“Wait,” Credence says, and the rest of his words die on his tongue.

His hand trembles in midair when he reaches for Percival, brushing his forearm and then clutching at his shirt sleeve. When Credence pulls on him, Percival moves. Credence lifts his arm and sets is around his waist again, stepping in close enough that their bodies almost touch.

Percival stands there, nose to nose with Credence, and looks at him until he feels cross-eyed.

“I don’t want to do anything you don’t want,” he says.

“I want this,” Credence says, close enough that Percival can feel his breath against his lips.

He puts an arm around Percival’s shoulders and then it’s a proper embrace, like they’re about to dance.

“I want more than this,” Credence says, leaning in to kiss him.

He presses his open mouth against Percival’s closed one, and Percival feels himself actually weaken at the knees. Pain makes him grimace against Credence’s lips and he tries to step away. But Credence holds onto him by the neck and they go stumbling back together.

Percival grabs out for something that isn’t Credence, who doesn’t seem to appreciate being held too tightly — or at all. His fingers brush the bedpost by chance and he grabs that. It could almost be graceful, if he had intended it, the way he swings himself around and Credence follows. Percival’s back hits the bedpost, but not hard enough to even make him wince. Were it not for the way Credence holds him, he might topple backwards into bed. Instead, they hold each other intimately.

They could be dancing.

Credence presses his whole body against him, then, when they both have something to lean into. He seems overly hot under Percival’s coat and presses his hips hard against Percival’s belly.

Then he skips back.

“Sorry,” he says, looking flushed and startled.

Percival blinks.

A few strands of Credence’s hair are somehow sticking straight out to the side and he looks all the more disheveled for that, so Percival reaches up and smooths that lock of hair back into place.

“You should do what you want, Credence,” he says. “I won’t stop you.”

Credence’s chest heaves and his whole body seems to move with it, but Percival’s eyes feel drawn to the space where his shirt falls unbuttoned. There’s dark hair on Credence’s chest, visible through the thin fabric of his underclothes. It creeps up right to the hollow of his throat, which Percival would very much like to kiss. He’d open the small, shining buttons of Credence’s underclothes with his teeth.

As though Credence can sense his thoughts, he lunges at him and presses a hard kiss to Percival’s mouth. Credence’s teeth catch on his lower lip. Percival inhales sharply, feeling flush with arousal, and Credence’s tongue pushes into his open mouth.

He feels devoured again, but there’s nowhere to go and he did tell Credence to do what he wants.

Credence presses against him until Percival can feel the bones of his ribs and hips through so many layers of clothing. He can also feel Credence’s erection pushing against his hip and belly. He wants to put his hand on it, learn the shape and weight of it instead of just the solid press against his body between their trousers.

He puts a hand against Credence’s back, over the coat, and Credence stills.

For a long moment, Percival breathes into Credence’s mouth and does not move.

He’s aroused, and he wants Credence rutting against him and breathing hot into his mouth. But when Credence draws back, his eyes still seem a bit too wide. He looks frightened.

Percival feels… guilty.

“We can stop,” he says.

“No,” Credence says, instantly. He’s quiet, but forceful.

When he takes his hand off of Credence’s back, the man presses closer. That he has some reservations about being touched seems abundantly clear, and Percival’s heart aches for it. All he wants to do is touch Credence.

Percival puts his hand lightly on Credence’s shoulder and inches his fingers toward his bare throat.

“Could I kiss you here?” he asks, brushing his thumb against Credence’s neck.

“Yes,” Credence says in a whisper.

He moves his head in expectation and Percival feels a jolt of something terrible at the easy way that Credence bares the side of his neck. The collar of his unbuttoned shirt falls loose, held in place only by the collar of his coat.

Percival’s coat, he thinks, as he presses his mouth to Credence’s neck. The man flinches away, but also grinds his hips hard against Percival. He pauses.

“Please,” Credence says. The muscles and tendons of his neck are so tense that Percival can feel them against his lips.

He kisses him gently.

“May I touch you?” Percival asks.

“Please,” Credence says again.

He slips his hand under the fall of Credence’s new coat — his old coat. Then, he puts his hand under Credence’s open waistcoat.

“Here?” Percival asks, before brushing his fingers against Credence’s side. Only his shirt and underclothes stand between Percival’s hand and Credence’s skin.

Credence nods his head and Percival feels him swallow as he continues to gently kiss the side of Credence’s neck.

He puts his hand against Credence’s side and rather than move away from him, Credence jerks his hips against Percival’s body. It makes him smile, he just can’t help himself.

Credence must be able to feel his arousal in the same manner that he can feel Credence’s. He doesn’t have the same urgency, perhaps, but he’s hard enough that every little bit of friction from Credence pressing against him feels very good.

Percival moves his hand down Credence’s side until he reaches the waist of his pants. The wool has been worn soft and Percival finds himself petting the side of Credence’s hip as he moves against him. The only sound aside from the soft slide of fabric seems to be Percival’s own breathing.

Credence doesn’t make a sound.

“You can touch me,” Percival says, whispered against Credence’s neck. He’s very close to kissing the hollow of his throat but he’s getting there very slowly. He might be rubbing a raw spot on Credence’s neck just below where his collar would sit, what with the hair on his chin. But Credence hasn’t complained or moved away.

He realizes that Credence’s hands are shaking when he puts them on Percival’s shoulders.

Credence moves one hand to Percival’s back, then to the back of his neck, then up into his hair. His touches move around, like he doesn’t know what to do or how to do it, but he isn’t gentle. He grabs Percival’s hair and holds him in place against his neck.

Percival curls his hand against Credence’s hip.

“Credence,” he says, as best he can with his mouth pressed to the bottom of the man’s throat.

“May I —” Percival doesn’t even know if he can be understood and his thoughts abandon him when he tries to think of how to ask Credence if he can touch him more intimately.

“Please,” Credence says. “Anything. Everything.”

Percival moves his hand between their bodies with some difficulty. Credence doesn’t leave much space, but then he jerks away from Percival’s touch. His hand on Percival’s hair tightens and he squeezes Percival’s shoulder.

Credence breathes hard, but he’s still so quiet.

Percival rests his hand on the inside of Credence’s thigh, fingers against his inseam.

“Please,” Credence whispers.

He moves his hand up between Credence’s legs, slow and gentle. Credence rocks his hips into the curve of Percival’s hand. There’s still layers of clothing between them, but Percival can make out the shape of Credence’s cock.

At the squeeze of his hand, Credence’s whole body goes stiff. He would like to be able to see him like this, instead of just listening to him breathe and feeling him shake. But Credence keeps Percival’s head against his throat with one hand.

Still, he’s close enough to hear Credence’s breathing grow labored. He stills completely when Percival touches him a bit harder and Percival swears he can feel his pulse pounding against his lips.

Percival moves his hand the best he can over Credence’s clothing. It makes the man’s legs shake. Credence puts his head down hard on Percival’s shoulder. Then he leans into Percival and if the bedpost weren’t behind him they’d both fall into bed.

“Percival,” Credence says, shivering against him.

“Please,” he says, as though the word is being forced out of him. His body shudders and his hips jerk hard enough to pin Percival’s wrist between their bodies. No pain would, at this point, make Percival let go. He hears Credence’s teeth grind and every sound that he swallows down.

For a moment, Credence tugs on Percival’s hair hard enough to hurt — hard enough to make Percival’s cock throb. Then he lets go.

He bows his head down to Percival’s shoulder and breathes hotly against the space between his waistcoat and his collar.

“Enough?” Percival asks, touching Credence more gently.

Credence nods against his shoulder.

Percival takes his hand away and puts his arm around Credence’s back instead. Now, finally, Credence doesn’t spring away from being held. He seems soft in Percival’s hold, even though he’s all bones and sinew. He’s bigger than Percival, really, or he could be — taller and broader. He pants against Percival’s collar.

“I love you,” Credence says, which is a terribly sentimental thing to say after a furtive and fumbling scrap of intimacy.

Percival wants to see his face, so he turns his head until he can kiss Credence’s clean-shaven cheek.

“And I love you,” he says. “Dearly.”

“Would you look at me?” he asks.

Credence lifts his head and he looks like a dream: flushed in the cheeks and red at the lips, with eyes made soft by pleasure.

“Kiss me,” he says.

Percival licks his lips and then licks his way into Credence’s beautiful mouth.

They kiss until Percival’s lips feel bruised, especially from the way Credence uses his teeth.

When Credence stands up, finally, he holds himself a little more upright with his shoulders relaxed.

Percival smiles at the sight.

“I should,” Credence says, “go clean myself up.”

“No need,” Percival says, and he doesn’t really have to snap his fingers when he does this spell but it adds a certain flair that he’s appreciated since he was seventeen.

Credence blinks. “Oh.”

When he stretches his leg, Percival’s knee pops like a roasted chestnut. He winces.

“Do you want me to,” Credence pauses momentarily and his eyes glance down, “do something?”

“Not unless you want to,” Percival says, and Credence ducks his head down until his chin must touch his collarbone. The tops of his ears are bright red.

“I should get dressed then,” Credence says.

Percival eases down onto his bed and carefully kicks his leg out until it’s straight, with his heel propped up on the floor.

“Do you mind if I stay, then?” Percival asks. He pretends to be quite interested in the bedspread and the way Credence arranged the clothes on it.

“Why?” Credence asks, and Percival glances over to see him scowling at him with his head still bowed.

His shoulders, at least, haven’t started hunching toward his ears, but he has his arms stiffly at his sides.

“Because I find you very beautiful to look at,” Percival says. Credence’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead in a way that Percival has to try very hard not to laugh at.

“And I’d like to have the memory of you undressing in my bedroom,” he adds.

“Only that?” Credence asks.

“It would be an honor,” Percival says. He’s smirking.

Credence looks at him with a completely appropriate amount of skepticism and disdain. His cheeks are still very red.

“I don’t understand you, Percival,” he says, while he reaches up and fumbles open a few more buttons on his shirt.

There’s no show to it, and Credence’s hands clumsily struggle with the second button he undoes. He glances up at Percival once, then again as he pulls the shirt loose from his trousers. A crease pops up between his eyebrows, then Credence shrugs off the coat in a single movement. It’s very dramatic, actually.

He swings the coat over one arm, folds it once, and tosses it onto the bed. Percival smiles to himself. Credence looks quite different like this, with his shirt open and a fairly irritated expression on his flushed face. Percival adjusts himself in his trousers and sees that the motion draws Credence’s attention.

Credence looks away as he slips his waistcoat off, then pushes his suspenders off his shoulders. After he takes his shirt off, he folds the shirt and waistcoat up to place alongside the coat.

“I meant it,” Percival says. “You’re beautiful.”

He’s looking at the points of Credence’s nipples, which appear like perfect dark circles beneath his underclothes. The dark hair seems particularly centered on Credence’s sternum, but there’s a bit peeking above the waist of his trousers where they sag from his waist to his hips.

It seems like his underclothes are a single piece, which makes Percival wonder. Also the short sleeves suggest this set wasn’t meant for winter. Thankfully, it’s been mild, but Percival still wonders. Perhaps he should offer Goldstein a bit of money? It’s not as though he doesn’t have plenty.

“You’re ridiculous,” Credence says.

“Ridiculously handsome, you mean,” Percival says.

Credence huffs out a small, smothered laugh as he goes to pick up his shirt. He slips it on without fuss, and buttons it before he tucks it into his trousers. Then he pulls up his suspenders and has to readjust the tuck of his shirt, which he does with a little bit of a frown.

“Would you hand me my tie?” Credence asks, and Percival picks up the length of blue silk and properly unfolds it between his hands.

“Thank you,” Credence says, and his hands are warm when they brush against Percival’s.

“My pleasure,” Percival says.

Credence looks at him, then, in that particular way he has of looking up while his head is slightly bowed. Percival folds his hands over his groin, almost feeling embarrassed. Almost, but not quite.

With practiced motions, Credence ties a simple knot. Just as Percival wonders where the tie pin has gone, Credence takes it out of his trouser pocket. There’s a bit of cork on the end of it, which makes Percival wonder what Credence expected to occur on this visit that he already had a bit of cork to keep his tie pin. But for all Percival knows, Credence just always has such things.

He watches as Credence carefully pins his tie before putting on his waistcoat, as though he’s already memorized how his tie should fall before he finishes dressing. Percival would correct him, if it seemed worthwhile. Maybe someday he could show Credence other ways to tie a tie and the order in which a gentleman dresses.

Or, more likely, he’ll never see Credence again.

Either way, Percival doesn’t see a purpose in making the man embarrassed about something so petty as pinning his tie before he puts on his waistcoat.

Credence brushes his lapel with his hand.

“I suppose I should go then,” he says.

Percival can’t help but frown.

“If that’s what you want to do,” he tells Credence.

“I’ve already intruded on your hospitality enough,” Credence says.

“Unless,” he adds. “There’s something you’d like from me?”

Now, Percival isn’t stupid. He’d once been just a few years past twenty, and may have had an ill-advised affair with a superior auror when he was fresh from his training. It’s not a situation he wants to recreate now with Credence in his place. Especially not when Credence is, for lack of other words, far more sheltered and far more powerful than he was at the same age.

“No,” Percival says. “Perhaps a kiss, if you’re intent on leaving.”

When Credence sighs, Percival honestly doesn’t know if it’s from disappointment or relief.

“Wait,” Percival says, as Credence begins to gather up the clothes and other things. “You need a bag.”

“You’ve really given me enough,” Credence says.

“Yes, and you’ve got to carry it all back to Goldstein’s place somehow,” Percival says.

Before Credence can protest again, Percival gets to his feet and presses the heel of his hand against his thigh to stop his leg from shaking. He feels stiff and overheated in some of the worst ways as he tries to walk, rather than hobble, out his bedroom door.

He has to go across his apartment to open a storage closet, where he has a whole collection of safes and artifacts among other junk spanning from Graves family heirlooms to a 10-foot-long banner from Seraphina’s initial run for office. There are three sets of empty luggage, and Percival grabs the smallest bag from the alligator-skin set.

While he has the privacy, Percival also adjusts himself in his trousers so his state of arousal won’t be so visually obvious. If Credence is so preoccupied with leaving, then he doesn’t really have to charm it away. Also, he’d just rather not.

When he returns with the bag, Credence gives him a look like he wants to object to it.

“Thank you,” he says, instead. “You’ve been far too kind to me, Percival.”

“Hardly,” Percival says.

Credence frowns, but quickly packs everything into the bag except for the coat.

“You’ll go then,” Percival says, meaning it almost as a question. He doesn’t want Credence to leave, of course, but he doesn’t want to keep him if he wants to go.

“Yes,” Credence says, but he stands there with his hands on the bag for a long and silent moment.

“I’m going to London,” he says.

“It’s a rather dirty, old city,” Percival tells him. “But the magic parts of it are some of the oldest — in the Western world, at least.”

“That’s interesting,” Credence says, in such a flat tone that Percival can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic.

Then he says, “You should write to me through Mr. Scamander. I’ll have him send letters to you.”

“Send them to Miss Goldstein,” Percival says. “It wouldn’t be suspect for a handsome young witch and the foreign wizard she met on an adventure to write to each other frequently.”

“Of course,” Credence says.

“Do you think they’re,” Credence’s mouth makes an unhappy shape, “doing things?”

Percival can only shrug. He cares less about what Theseus’ little brother and Tina Goldstein are doing than Goldstein likely cares about the popular colors for the upcoming spring ball season.

“I’ll write to you through them, then,” Credence says.

“And I’ll write back,” Percival swears.

“I should go,” Credence says, picking up the bag by its ivory handle. “Thank you very much, Percival, for all you’ve done.”

“You’re most welcome, Credence,” he says, and it wouldn’t be so uncomfortably formal if Credence would meet his eyes. But he looks down and slightly to the left of Percival.

“I’ll see you to the door, then?” Percival asks, when the silence begins to sink in between them again.

Credence bows his head and leads Percival out of the room. He doesn’t say anything, even as Percival gets his jacket and coat off the hook.

“Thank you,” he says, setting down the bag to put each one on.

“I hope you’ll visit New York again,” Percival says, which is an incredibly selfish thing for him to say. It’s likely he’s about to be smuggled out of the country, and returning here would only put him in danger all over again.

“I hope I can,” Credence says.

“Of course, there’s a lot more to the world than New York,” Percival says. In his mind he thinks, well, there’s Boston. Paris has some nice points? London’s only good point is that he has some old friends who live nearby who might not immediately recall that a dark wizard has most recently been wearing his face.

“I should like to see it,” Credence says.

“I don’t want you to think that you have to hold onto anything in this city,” Percival says. “Or anything I’ve given you. I’m sure you’ll meet many new and interesting people. I assume you’ll be staying with Mr. Scamander? The Ministry’s a very busy organization, a bit more tolerant than our Congress.”

“I’ll find out,” Credence says.

Percival tucks both his hands in his pockets and huffs out a breath to dispel the heavy sadness trying to settle in his chest. He’s jealous of an entire dirty city full of people he’s never met or cared about.

“Don’t hold yourself back on my account,” Percival says. “Or anyone’s, actually. I meant what I said, you’re free now and I do believe you’re a good man, Credence.”

“Thank you,” Credence says, his voice cracking slightly.

Credence bends over quickly to pick up his bag again, though Percival’s certain he could have picked it up with magic. But that’s the sort of thinking one only develops from years of feeling magic like another limb. What does magic feel like to Credence? He cannot even imagine.

“Would you like that kiss now or at the door?” Percival asks, in attempt to lighten the mood.

“You could give me two,” Credence says, without meeting his eye.

“That sounds fair,” Percival tells him.

He reaches out and gently touches Credence’s jaw with the hope of making him look up. Instead, Credence flinches away from him.

“Credence?” 

“I’m fine,” the man says, and he lifts his chin almost defiantly. 

The wetness in Credence’s eyes makes Percival’s heart clench like a fist. He swallows. It doesn’t do Credence any good to get upset himself.

“I think you’re a spell better than fine,” Percival says, because he’s a better flirt than a consoler. “You’re lovely.”

He leans forward, rather than step into Credence’s space, and makes himself easily available for a kiss. Credence meets him where he goes and presses their lips softly together.

Then he eases back and Percival thinks very much of the chaste, gentle kisses they used to exchange. Percival licks his lips to find the taste of Credence there, as he always has.

“Thank you, Mr. Graves,” he says.

“It was my pleasure, Mr. Barebone,” Percival replies.

Then he walks with Credence to the door and holds it open despite what that does to the wards.

Credence cups his face with one hand and they kiss again. If a tear falls down Credence’s cheek, it’s not something Percival feels he should comment upon. As much as he would like to wipe it away, he cringes to think his last sight of Credence would be him flinching away.

He shuts the door between them and lets his magic turn the locks and replace the chain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, it was my editor's idea to end the chapter on that note. Also I'm on tumblr at jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s.tumblr.com if you really need to tell me that you hate me.


	9. Witchcraft and wickedness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic can make a sow's ear into a silk purse and a hedgehog into a pincushion. But what is the spell to banish regret and fear? Credence seeks to transfigure his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter really earns the E rating and also, primarily, from Credence's perspective and he's having A Time. I apologize for the delay on this chapter.

On the other side of the door, Credence holds the bag and coat Percival gave him in one hand and wipes his face with the other. He’s furious with himself for crying, but that only seems to make more tears come.

He ought to go downstairs and wait there for Tina and Newt to return. They never set a time and he doesn’t have a watch, so he wouldn’t have known either way. Still, he’s wasted enough of Percival’s time and offered nothing in return for everything he’s been given.

Credence swallows the lump in his throat that chokes him. Though all the evidence has been wiped away by Percival’s magic, he feels rubbed raw. He can still feel Percival’s hands on him through his clothes. When he blinks, he can see Percival looking at him as he undresses.

If Percival truly thought he was beautiful, then how could he restrain himself? Or did Credence’s clumsy failures at seduction fall short because Percival is too much of a gentleman?

A truly wicked, wicked thought crawls through Credence’s brain like a worm burrowing into fetid soil.

This wicked thought tells him that it’s because he let that other man touch him while he was pretending to be Percival. He so wanted to be held and valued by such a handsome man that he let himself succumb to temptation. When Percival Graves wasn’t himself and, even before then, he touched Credence confidently. Now, he doesn’t. Of course the real Percival Graves no longer wants him, faithless as he is.

“No,” Credence tells himself, because he can feel more tears coming and the pain in his chest feels like something that wants to burst out of his bones. He recognizes this specific feeling.

“He said I was a good man,” he whispers to himself. “That’s what he believes.”

Credence wishes he was back inside Percival’s apartment so badly he could almost fade to smoke and sneak under the door. That would be very rude, however.

He takes a few deep breaths to clear his nose and wipes his face dry.

Then he knocks on the door.

It flies open before Credence can knock again. There stands Percival, just as he was, looking at Credence with wide eyes.

“Credence,” Percival says, and Credence steps over the threshold with his head bowed.

He doesn’t deserve to be here.

“I’m very sorry,” Credence says. “I just realized that I don’t know where Tina and Newt — Miss Goldstein and Mr. Scamander have gone. I don’t think they’re back yet.”

“That’s a reasonable assumption,” Percival tells him.

But Credence presses forward with his argument, before his well of courage runs dry. “I think I should wait for them here.”

“I agree,” Percival says.

Credence lets out a small breath through his mouth. He sets the bag down by the door and begins to take his coat off again. He wants to stay here with Percival so badly. He steals glances at all the parts of Percival that he can and — well, he shouldn’t look at that. But he does. He wants to see Percival aroused, even feels some stab of pride that this man is aroused because of him. Credence is more of a sinner than a gentleman by his nature, for all that Percival may think he’s a good man.

Behind him, the door shuts with magic.

“I’m sorry,” he says, holding his coat and forcing himself to look at his own shoes rather than at Percival’s hands or groin.

“No need to apologize,” Percival says. “I’m happy to have you here.”

That makes him look up, because he really can’t believe it. Yet, Percival doesn’t look unhappy with him. He’s smiling — though it’s a bit crooked, in a handsome way.

“May I take your coat?” he asks, and Credence offers it up. Then Percival steps forward and takes it from him by hand. He touches Credence very lightly as he does so and it makes the hairs on Credence’s arm stand up under his shirt sleeve.

So Credence takes off his jacket as well and holds that out to Percival so that he’ll touch him again, but with only his shirt sleeves between Percival’s hands and his skin.

“Thank you,” he says.

“My pleasure,” Percival tells him.

“I don’t mean to impinge on your hospitality,” he says, because his thoughts are the definition of inhospitable. How can Percival be so relaxed in such a state? The wickedness in Credence, which has grown like a fire being fed fresh coals, makes him want to know what it would take to push Percival until he was as flushed and ruined as Percival’s hand made him. But Credence doesn’t even know how to begin to push.

“You couldn’t do such a thing,” Percival says.

Credence frowns. He’s certainly trying to think of ways that he might.

“Why don’t you have a seat?” Percival says, like a perfect host. “I could make coffee again.”

“I’m fine,” he says. “Thank you.”

Percival goes to his beautiful, high-backed chair and sits down with his legs stretched out before him. Credence follows, until he’s standing right in front of Percival and all he can think of is how he wants to press himself against him all over again.

But Percival is frowning for some reason, and Credence’s courage finally dries up.

Desperate, Credence reaches out and suddenly finds that the chair he had sat in before has appeared beside Percival’s chair. Was that magic? Credence sits down quickly so he doesn’t have to think about any of this anymore.

“Is that so you don’t have to look me in the eye?” Percival asks.

Credence can feel him looking at him. “No.”

He sees Percival’s hand moving toward his from the corner of his eye, but even seeing it doesn’t keep him from flinching when Percival touches him. He pulls his hand away, and that feeling inside him returns as Credence dwells on how badly he wants to be touched.

Percival’s hand hangs there in the air, close enough for Credence to take in his.

Looking over, he sees Percival is completely relaxed. His body takes up all the space in his chair and then some. He looks like a painting, Credence thinks, like art come to life in bold strokes.

Credence grabs Percival’s hand before he can change his mind and take it away. He fits his fingers in between Percival’s and presses their palms close enough that Credence’s hand sweats.

When he looks again, Percival smiles at him. Credence looks away. But he finds he’s smiling too.

“I have an idea,” Percival says, then.

Credence glances back at him. What sort of idea?

“How much do you know about transfiguration?” Percival asks.

Should he know? Is this some kind of test? Credence holds tight to Percival’s hand and thinks of the Goldsteins’ schoolbooks. He thinks he recognizes the word, but he’s not sure. He doesn’t know what it means. There are so many things he doesn’t know.

“I don’t know what that is,” Credence says, his voice tight with embarrassment.

“That’s fine,” Percival tells him. “But you’ve done it already.”

  
Turning his head to the side, Credence stares at Percival.

“In the simplest terms, transfiguration is using magic to turn a thing into something else. And you, well...” Percival tells him.

Though he lets Credence hold his hand, Percival waves the other in the air as though that explains anything at all.

“I what?” Credence asks.

“You turned yourself back into flesh and blood, didn’t you?” Percival says.

“Oh,” Credence says.

That was transfiguration?

Credence feels that familiar itch inside his body. It’s always there now, as though his clothes fit loosely but his skin fits too tight. He knows what will make that feeling go away. But he likes to have a body to talk and share meals and hold hands with. It’s not so bad, having a body.

“Yes,” he admits. “I did that.”

He stares at Percival and gathers courage from that itch inside him.

“That’s transfiguration?” he asks.

“It’s a form of it,” Percival answers.

So if turning from a man to nothing and back into a man is only a form of transfiguration, well, Credence has to ask, “Is that how someone could make themselves look like someone else?”

Percival’s expression darkens, and Credence regrets his words. He holds Percival’s hand a bit tighter, until his knuckles start to protest from the amount of force and the width of Percival’s fingers.

“With transfiguration?” he clarifies.

“It’s one way,” Percival says. “There are other ways, but for someone who was particularly gifted in human transfiguration, that would be the simplest — and the most difficult to detect.”

He doesn’t know if he is particularly gifted in magic at all, but Newt seems convinced that Credence is unusual. He knows he’s powerful, but he doesn’t know what great power he has besides destruction and death. He can make and unmake his own body, though, and perhaps that means he is particularly gifted for this transfiguration business.

Credence looks at the way Percival’s fingers fit around his scarred hand. His hands haven’t hurt since he put himself together. His palm sweats against Percival’s hand, but the salt doesn’t sting.

“Could I do that?” he asks.

“Perhaps someday,” Percival says. “It’s obvious you have quite a lot of natural magical ability.”

He can’t help it, Credence smiles. _Obvious_ , Percival says. Credence has so much magical ability that it’s obvious.

“But,” Percival says.

Credence looks at him and waits for what always comes after that word.

“Human transfiguration is difficult, and it can be incredibly dangerous,” Percival says, as though Credence cares about danger. “You’ve likely succeeded in it because — well, I can only theorize, but it is your body and the Obscurus has been with you since you were a child.”

He thinks about himself as the Obscurus, even though he ought to know better. It’s not as though he wants it to be gone. But the itching in Credence’s ribs when he feels angry and overwhelmed, the cold that crawls up the back of his neck, that isn’t a part of his body. Not naturally. It is not a limb or a soul. It’s something else that asked to be allowed into Credence. He was weak, so he said yes.

Everything after that also happened because of Credence’s weakness.

“I’m not sure I can totally control it,” he says, through the tightness in his throat. “I couldn’t once. The last time.”

But all the times before that, he could.

“That happens with magic,” Percival says.

Is it magic, then, that made Credence weak? He doesn’t want that to be true.

“There are some kinds of wands which are prone to casting hexes because of the owner’s bad moods,” Percival tells him. “And witches who cast charms in their sleep.”

He continues, looking at Credence all the while and letting him hold his hand. “There are people who are more prone to transfiguring their own bodies — even people who can transfigure themselves into animals.”

“Animagus,” Credence says, because he remember Queenie explaining that.

“Yes,” Percival says.

Then he says what Queenie has already told him: “That’s some of the oldest human transfiguration, practiced all over the world. It predates the invention of wands, even.”

“But it’s difficult?” Credence asks.

“Very,” Percival says. “Especially difficult without a wand — only very powerful witches are capable of it, those who have the natural ability and the strength. A wand can really help in transfiguration, because it’s so exact and takes such power.”

For a moment, Credence feels crestfallen. He has no wand. Tina mentioned that in America, one needs a license to own one. Credence is a criminal; even if the authorities didn’t execute him, they’d never let him have a wand.

“But,” Percival says. Credence always anticipates something terrible after that word.

Instead, Percival says “A powerful witch or wizard can do it without one, if they know what they’re doing.”

Credence smiles. “What was your idea?”

When Percival moves his thumb against the side of Credence’s finger, he squeezes the man’s hand.

“You’ll have to stand up,” Percival says. “Then I can show you.”

The feeling inside Credence, for once, isn’t anger or fear. He’s not sure what it is, exactly, but it’s ready to burst out of him. He lets it.

When he wants it to, it doesn’t hurt. He feels himself dissolve like his flesh and bones are made of salt and the Obscurus is water.

He wants to be in front of Percival, so he is. He feels like the East River, polluted and freezing cold. But, he wants Percival to see him. He wants Percival to know him, truly know him.

If he could talk like this, he would tell Percival how sorry he is that he lied to him.

Credence looks down, focusing his full sight of the room onto Percival alone. He looks frightened, with wide eyes and parted lips. Credence feels his fear and that — that makes him want to be flesh again.

So, just as easily, he is.

Percival blinks and his mouth hangs open slightly. He looks so very handsome, Credence thinks.

“May I help you up?” Credence asks, holding out his hand and trying not to smile. He doesn’t want Percival to think he’s not a good man. Though, reasonably, he isn’t.

As he watches, Percival’s chest rises and falls. He reaches out and Credence takes his hand. He only pulls a little, but then Percival is suddenly very close.

“Showing off a bit,” Percival says, which makes Credence let his smile show. He does understand after all, Credence thinks.

“Not at all, sir,” he says.

Percival looks at him as he moves around to Credence’s side, close enough that their shirt sleeves brush together.

“I'll see if I can still do this properly,” Percival begins. “The wandless transfiguration of objects is incredibly advanced in the East, do you know?”

Credence does not know.

“The Chinese have perfected it beyond a science — not that they care to share it with anyone else,” he explains. “But we in America, as wizards, benefit a little from not being allowed wands all the time as children and being exposed to wizards from all over the world.”

“This will be a Chinese spell?” Credence asks.

“Oh no,” Percival says, and Credence looks at him from the corner of his eye.  

“I only know it in Latin,” Percival tells him. “But it would be less of a crapshoot in Chinese, I'm sure.”

That does not fill Credence with confidence. What exactly will they be transfiguring? And what does any of it have to do with gambling or China?

“Put your hand over mine,” Percival tells him, stretching his arm out into the air.

An invitation to touch Percival is an easy thing to answer. Credence settles his hand so that each of his fingers rests over Percival’s. It’s more than Percival asked for, but he also moves in closer. He can nearly line their arms up if he tucks himself behind Percival’s shoulder.

“Now here's the motion,” Percival says, and Credence moves his hand along with Percival’s. It feels so very graceful.

Then Percival tells him what words to say — not that they mean anything to Credence. They’re only sounds, and he doesn’t ask what anything means. He listens carefully to Percival’s voice and he tries his best to copy him exactly.

“What does this spell do?” Credence asks, after Percival tells him that he has “excellent pronunciation.”

“It should turn the two chairs into one,” Percival says.

Oh, Credence thinks, that doesn’t sound like it could go too badly. If they ruin the chairs, well… They can sit in the kitchen or go back to Percival’s bedroom. Not that Credence would do anything to intentionally ruin the chairs. If he wanted to do that, he already knows how to destroy things with his magic.

“Now,” Percival says, “hold an image of what that would look like in your mind and we’ll cast together.”

Credence imagines something with the high back and tall arms of Percival’s chair and the smooth, black leather of the other chair. He thinks of the curling, black smoke inside him. He says the words Percival taught him and lets Percival move their hands together. Credence shuts his eyes.

“It’s a bit baroque, don’t you think?” Percival says, making Credence blink.

The image in his mind stands there against Percival’s wooden floor. Credence feels incredibly proud. He can’t help but smile.

“I like it,” he says.

“Well, then, let’s try it out,” Percival tells him.

As though Percival still leads him by the hand, Credence goes and sits beside him. They’re close enough to touch now, but there’s no reason to. He sets his hands on his knees, his fingers curled tight.

“Thank you for showing me that,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” Percival tells him. “I hope you’ll go forth and turn many chairs into loveseats.”

Credence’s smile turns into a soft laugh.

They sit close enough that Percival’s leg touches his. His knee rests against Credence’s knee from the spread of his legs. Credence keeps his fist balanced on the top of his leg, knowing he’s one small motion from putting his hand on Percival. And if he did move his hand? Credence follows the lines of Percival’s pants up the length of his thigh. His breath doesn’t catch only because he has so much practice in hiding even the smallest reaction. He only blushes from being kissed; he isn’t made of stone.

Looking up Credence tries to memorize how Percival looks, for all the days ahead when he won’t see him. This is the face he wants to remember: older-looking and with new scars, thinner, not so clean-shaven. Percival looks so very tired that Credence wants to tell him to go to bed with him.

Here, in Percival’s apartment, having made a loveseat with him through magic, Credence indulges an old fantasy.

He knows he can’t stay here; he’s a dead man, a fugitive, an _Obscurial_. But before he was any of those things, he had wanted Percival to save him.

Credence used to look at Percival and wonder what he could possibly offer a man like that. Why had Percival even noticed him that day? Why had he continued to notice him?

He had wondered where and how a man like Percival lived. Not that he had ever asked, but it was always obvious that he was a professional man and very busy. He knew all about New York’s street vendors, which left Credence worrying that he didn’t take proper care of himself at home. Credence knew by his hands and kisses that he was a bachelor.

In his letters, which now very many people have read, Credence had written down his desire to repay Percival Graves for his kindness.

He knew he wasn’t completely incapable. He could cook and clean. He wasn’t quite as good as Chastity with sums, but he could balance books and knew his grammar better than she did. Any idiot could shine shoes and do laundry.

Credence used to fantasize that Percival would take pity on him and spirit him away — always with Modesty, since he could hardly leave her behind with Mary Lou.

Now, Credence returns to these old thoughts and transfigures them for his much-changed world. Percival could teach him magic; Credence could cook and clean for him. He’d be able to rest, if he had Credence to care for him. Then he might not look so tired.

It had felt as though Percival was taunting him, then, when he had told Credence to consider the kitchen in this apartment to be his domain. And again when he let Credence dress himself in his clothing.

It made it too easy to imagine a life with Percival — one that would likely be full of moments like the one they’d shared in Percival’s bedroom.

Heat settles in between Credence’s legs again, because he has a limitless propensity for wickedness. His appetites could never be satisfied by only that small taste. When he left Percival’s apartment, he should have stayed gone.

“Percival,” he says.

Percival looks at him, and Credence lets his eyes wander up and down the lines of Percival’s body.

“Yes?” Percival asks him.

“I enjoy learning about magic from you,” Credence admits.

He feels very bold. “But I think I’d like to kiss you again.”

Credence presses his knees tightly together until it hurts.

“I’m sorry.”

“I'd welcome it,” Percival says. “No need to be sorry.”

How can he say that sort of thing? Doesn’t he understand that Credence will _never_ be satisfied? Does he even know what he’s welcoming?

“Kiss me,” Percival says, in a voice that commands Credence to look at him and move.

The heat between his legs throbs like his pounding heart. Credence has to swallow slowly and breathe even more carefully to control himself.

He reaches out, wanting to put his hand to Percival’s face or his shoulder or his chest. No, truly, he wants to put his hand between Percival’s legs the same way that he had done to Credence. But he can’t do any of that. His hand comes down on the arm of the chair near Percival’s shoulder.

Even that feels like an imposition, but Credence has to lean over with his body twisted around in order to kiss Percival. If that’s what he wants.

He looks into Percival’s eyes for a long, long time. He waits for Percival to touch him or kiss him.

But he doesn’t. He closes his eyes and Credence knows what he has to do. He closes his eyes as well and touches his lips to Percival’s mouth. He can feel the scratch of his whiskers as he opens his mouth and licks at Percival’s lips. The taste of coffee has long faded there and Credence thinks this sweetness, then, must be only Percival.

Both his hands would be shaking, but he holds tight to the arm of the loveseat and clenches the other into a tight fist.

When Percival reaches up and touches his arm, only his arm, Credence’s whole body shudders.

He pulls away from Percival against his own wishes, feeling less in control of himself than when he didn’t have a body.

“You can touch me,” Percival says, an echo of their encounter in the bedroom. Credence wants to touch himself. He wants to touch Percival everywhere. He wants Percival to touch him until he stops flinching away from it.

“How?” Credence asks, embarrassed at the way he sounds. He’s whining.

“How should I touch you?” he asks, trying to make his voice deeper and calmer.

“However you want,” Percival says, which isn’t an answer at all.

Credence pulls back and looks at him. He wants so many things that he can’t put into words, and even more that he can’t have. His greatest desire would be to stay here forever with Percival. After that, perhaps, he wants to undress himself and then Percival. But they’re in Percival’s sitting room. Besides, he can barely let Percival touch him through his clothes or see him with his shirt off. Just those things make Credence burn so fiercely he feels he might die.

“I don’t know how,” Credence says.

“Well,” Percival says. “If you don’t know _how_ you want to touch me, you don’t have to do it. I’m just letting you know the offer’s open.”

The pain that words can cause him has, in Credence’s life, always been intolerable. But no insult compares to the way that Percival taunts him — offering so much and so little at once.

“You can show me magic, but you can’t teach me this?” Credence says, in his most ungrateful tone. Why can’t he just be satisfied with what he has? No, he always has to want more, and now Percival holds everything he wants. Only, it’s just outside Credence’s grasp, like having a wand or being a good person.

Percival looks at him with his brow a mess of lines. He doesn’t have to say anything for Credence to feel chastened.

Petulantly, Credence bites his tongue on the urge to apologize. Let Percival do whatever he wants with his eyebrows. This isn’t _fair_.

“If you don’t know what you want, I doubt I can teach you,” Percival says.

Oh, Credence knows what he wants then. He wants to eat Percival alive.

He throws himself at him and their mouths collide. Credence feels his teeth crack against Percival’s before he tastes him. He pushes his tongue into Percival’s mouth as far as he can, holding his own mouth wide open when Percival returns the favor.

There’s still a hand on Credence’s arm and it moves to his shoulder. Percival drags him toward his chest. Credence pushes back, putting a hand up between them and pressing Percival back against the arm of the loveseat.

He groans into Credence’s mouth and Credence feels it in his teeth.

Credence tries to soften his hunger. He uses his teeth on Percival’s lips, taking smaller and smaller bites. He kisses the sweetness in Percival’s mouth until he can taste nothing else.

Lost in this, Credence doesn’t know how long Percival has been caressing him. But he feels Percival’s hand moving against his back in slow circles. His hand is warm through Credence’s waistcoat and shirt and underclothes.

He pulls away from the kiss, but he feels his lips throb with his pulse. He closes his eyes and touches his brow against Percival’s. He feels the pounding of his heart in every inch of his body.

“I don’t know what I want,” Credence whispers against Percival’s mouth.

He wants Percival to tell him what he wants. He wants Percival to tell him what to do. He wants to know it isn’t just him who wants the things he wants.

“I think you do,” Percival whispers back, and Credence bites down on whatever he could say to that.

Credence puts space between himself and Percival then, hoping to calm his breathing and the rest of his body. Also, he likes to look at Percival. He wishes he could somehow look at him and kiss him at the same time, but he can only do one at a time.

He looks from Percival’s face to his throat to his tie and down and down. He should look away.

Forcing himself to look back to Percival’s face, Credence takes his hand from the arm of the loveseat and moves it to Percival’s cheek. The hair on his face, not quite a beard, pricks at his fingertips. The hair goes soft right in front of Percival’s ear, which Credence traces the shape of just to see if he’s allowed to. Percival doesn’t say anything, so he moves his hand to the soft, close-cropped hair at the side of Percival’s head. It’s as soft as Credence imagined, and the late afternoon light cast into Percival’s apartment through the drapes catches on every silver hair.

He sighs, fondly, but not in anyway he hopes will be noticed. It’s only a slightly longer breath out through his nose.

Credence runs his fingertips over Percival’s hair, first trying not to disrupt the fall of it, and then pressing in toward Percival’s scalp. There’s something waxy or oily in his hair, which is probably why it smells so good. It’s not just his soap or his cologne, it’s any number of things. Credence loves it all.

“Whatever it is you want, Credence,” Percival tells him. “You don’t have to do it all at once, or with me for that matter.”

“Do you put wax in your hair?” Credence asks, combing his hand through Percival’s hair until he’s ruined the shape of it completely. Percival hasn’t told him to stop. He’s even smiling a little, while Credence ruins his hairstyle.

“No,” Percival says. “It’s pomade. Well, with a bit of magic, obviously.”

None of that means much to Credence, though he’s seen things in stores before. It’s probably expensive, whatever Percival uses. Expensive and only available to wizards, so very rare indeed.

“I think it’s coming off on my hand,” Credence says.

Now, surely, Percival will tell him to stop, chastise him the way he deserves for messing things up.

When Percival just sort of smiles at him, the fondness overwhelms Credence. He feels that he might cry, if he isn’t careful. So he leans toward Percival and presses his mouth to his cheek. The short hairs bite into his lips in a way that sends shivers through him. He moves to Percival’s mouth and kisses him again.

Percival opens his mouth and lets Credence taste him, but now it’s as though Percival’s mouth is no different from his own. He sighs into the kiss and then pulls away.

He wants something that he thinks he could ask for. But first Credence presses a few more kisses to Percival’s mouth, feeling as though he could pull courage into himself if Percival breathed it into him.

“If I asked,” Credence begins, “would you touch me the way you did before?”

He stays close enough that he doesn’t have to open his eyes or look at Percival. They could still be kissing, if Percival wants to ignore him.

“Does this count as you asking?” Percival says, answering his question with another question.

“Yes,” Credence says.

Percival moves his hand from Credence’s back down over his ribs. Credence stops breathing for a moment and holds himself as still as possible. He wants this, and if he truly means that then he won’t shiver or flinch. That’s what he tells himself.

But he’s still trembling, and he doesn’t know why he can’t stop.

Percival’s hand presses against his side, then bumps into his hipbone. His thumb tucks under Credence’s braces right above the waistband of his pants.

“I don’t have to do this over your trousers,” Percival says. His hand rests against Credence’s hip. Credence thinks of it against his bare skin instead and he shudders.

“No,” Credence says. “This is enough.”

It isn’t. He wants _so_ much more.

When Percival moves his hand again, Credence takes his own off Percival’s chest and places it over the back of Percival’s. The heel of his hand rests against Percival’s fingers, which feel so warm. His touch would be hot against his skin, Credence thinks. Or maybe it wouldn’t, because Credence already feels burning hot under his clothes.

Percival looks at his face, which Credence knows is flushed. He looks down so that he doesn’t have to see Percival watching him. But then he can see that Percival is in the same state that he’s in.

Credence squeezes his hand over Percival’s, shaping Percival’s hand around what’s under his clothes. It feels like relief, but it’s as sharp and sudden as pain. Credence breathes in through his nose.

He moves his hand, but he also finds he’s moving his hips. He would turn his whole body to face Percival’s, but there’s not much room. He puts a hand on Percival’s shoulder without looking directly at him. Leaning in, Credence turns to get his knee up on the loveseat. There’s so little space and he doesn’t want to get his shoes on the furniture.

“Need help?” Percival asks. He has his fingers curled around Credence so intimately. Credence doesn’t even know what he’s talking about.

He needs to press himself as close as possible to Percival.

By magic, his shoes both slide off his feet and Credence can only blink. He quickly tucks one leg under himself and turns to face Percival completely.

This would be much easier in a bed, Credence thinks, and without clothes between them.

It would also be completely different, something else entirely that he doesn’t have words for. Or, he does, but he can’t bear to say them.

“Thank you,” Credence says, as though it’s not a total obscenity to say while he’s pressing Percival’s hand against himself and thrusting into the shape of it.

“It was my pleasure,” Percival says. “I assure you.”

His voice sounds deeper. Credence wishes he was close enough to hear it whispered right into his ear, feel Percival’s hot breath against the short hairs on his scalp.

“I want you,” Credence says. It could be a complete sentence on its own.

“To touch yourself,” he continues. His voice feels squeezed into a hiss.

“Oh, that would certainly be my pleasure,” Percival says.

Credence feels his body jerk just at the way Percival shapes his words.

“Should I do it through my clothes?” Percival asks him. “I don’t want to offend you.”

Offend Credence?

“Please,” Credence says. “Show me what you like.”

He watches Percival’s hand move to the lower buttons of his waistcoat and unbutton it from the bottom up. Percival half undresses himself before he moves his hand back to the waist of his pants.

Credence finds, as Percival begins to unbutton his fly, that he’s moving his hips with each button that Percival opens. He hopes that Percival hasn’t noticed this; the thought that he has or that he could makes Credence’s skin burn.

Even the sound of his own breathing seems too loud in his ears. He can hear the muscles in his throat move when he swallows the spit collecting under his tongue.

He has to swallow again as Percival folds back the fabric of his pants fly.

He has seen Percival’s body; he has even seen him aroused. But he shouldn’t have. What Credence has seen was all through magic, deception and violence. Now, Percival unbuttons the fly of his underclothes and takes himself in hand. He does it freely, because Credence wants to see it.

Oh, if he weren’t so wicked, he would be disgusted by the sight. Credence has never been so glad to be wicked.

He presses Percival’s hand hard against himself, moving it as Percival uses his other hand on his own body.

Credence’s underclothes are wet with sweat and other things against intimate skin. He imagines the drag of that against his body must pale in comparison to the touch of Percival’s hand.

He watches Percival touch himself with the intent to memorize it. He wants to remember every detail: how smooth the skin looks, how the color is a shade darker than Percival’s hand, the way the very end of it looks as wet as Percival’s lips and matches his mouth in color. Or, at least, the red of his lips after Credence has kissed him fiercely.

Credence swallows again.

He dares to look at Percival’s face then. He wants to see his mouth. He wants to know how this affects Percival, if it does at all. Some part of Credence imagines that only he is so undone by this.

He does not expect Percival to be looking at him. He finds himself looking directly into Percival’s eyes, which are darker than ever. Credence freezes, but Percival moves his hands on his own — on himself and on Credence.

“You’re very quiet,” Percival says.

The breath in Credence’s lungs shakes his whole body on its way out of him.

“May I,” he says, “touch you?”

His heart feels like it’s pounding at the back of his throat like a fist.

“Please,” Percival says. “Touch me, Credence, however you want.”

His hand shakes when he takes it away from Percival’s chest.

Credence’s body leans slowly forward, and he presses his shoulder into the back of the loveseat to stay upright. He wants to be closer to Percival, but doesn’t know how close he can stand to be. He feels like he could shake apart at any moment, or turn into fire instead of smoke.

He touches Percival’s wrist, feeling the tendons with two fingers under the cuff of his shirt sleeve. Credence has to swallow again before he can move his hand. It seems pale and horrible compared to any part of Percival’s body. But especially this part, which should disgust a righteous man, but which delights Credence. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more beautiful part of God’s creation than the body of Percival Graves.

His hand fits so well over Percival’s.

He lets Percival’s fist guide his own.

But Credence already knows what Percival’s hands feel like.

Percival drags both their hands up toward the tip of it, but Credence keeps his there. He touches it with light fingers as Percival moves his fist back down towards his hips. Wetness gets on Credence’s fingertips. Percival groans from the back of his throat, a sound Credence has never heard before.

“Credence,” he says, in a low, soft voice.

It makes Credence jerk his hips, his whole body twitching.

“Credence,” Percival says, again.

He closes his hand around Percival.

He knows words for this — obscenities from the mouths of dockworkers and SoHo prostitutes. Words he could never say without fearing a blow to the face. Even the thought makes the back of his tongue taste like soap and hunger.

But this act, the true obscenity, the sin of flesh, makes Credence feel so good. Percival’s flesh is hot in his hand, the skin smooth and firm. He moves his hand downward in a fist until he reaches Percival’s at the base.

“Go ahead,” Percival tells him, and takes his hand away. Credence glances at Percival, who still stares right at Credence’s face. He looks back to his hand and licks his upper lip.

This feels nothing at all like touching his own body.

Which makes him wonder, as he moves his hand, what it would feel like to have Percival touch him. The thought makes Credence shiver with fear. Or maybe he shivers from excitement. Or maybe he shivers from the feeling of Percival’s hand squeezing him through his pants.

Whatever it is; Credence is shivering.

“Credence,” Percival says, and Credence has to bite down hard to stay silent.

“I like this,” he says, with his cheeks burning.

“Oh, good,” Percival says.

Credence can hear Percival breathing, even louder than himself. Percival groans again when Credence’s hand reaches the tip.

“I want you to touch me,” Credence says.

“Yes,” Percival says. “Absolutely. However you want.”

He groans again.

Taking his hand off of Percival’s, Credence tries to open the buttons of his pants without looking. His fingers fail him. He can't move both his hands in such different motions at the same time. The end result is that he accomplishes nothing.

“Sorry,” he says. “I'm sorry.”

He looks down at himself and all he can really see is the way Percival’s hand rests on his own obscenity.

Then Percival whispers some words, some magic, and Credence’s buttons open themselves.

“Thank you,” he says.

His whole body jerks when Percival grasps at the folds of his open fly. Credence grabs him by the wrist.

“Changed your mind?” Percival asks.

“No,” Credence says. “I want this.”

Percival unbuttons his underclothes with his fingers rather than his magic. Or, perhaps, it's both.

His leg shakes when Percival’s fingers touch his bare skin. He watches Percival touch him. It feels much the way touching himself feels, but Percival touches him with smooth, firm gestures. He doesn't go slowly, but it doesn't hurt at all.

Credence looks away. He has to. His eyes fall back on his own hand on Percival. He's neglected to move it for this whole, long moment, and when he finally does it makes Percival move his hips.

His mouth open, Credence breathes too harshly and feels his mouth going dry.

He wants to kiss Percival again simply to wet his tongue. He wants to kiss the flesh in his hand with an open mouth so that he might taste it. He wants to see and kiss every inch of Percival’s body. Everything he wants, he knows to be wickedness and evil. Still, he _wants_.

Percival whispers more words, more magic, and his hand on Credence turns slick and warm with oil. Credence jerks his hips forward and his whole body follows. He collapses, shaking, like a brick row house under the blow of the Obscurus. Credence presses his face to Percival’s neck and nearly makes a sound.

“Is it good?” Percival asks.

Credence nods his head, pushing his nose against the collar of Percival’s shirt. He moves his hips now as Percival moves his hand. His body feels completely out of his control, as though he's possessed by some outside force. He shakes and jerks and gasps for breath.

Clenching his teeth so hard it hurts, Credence feels his body spasm from the shoulders first, then the hips. The smoke in his bones shivers under his skin. He sees spots of white behind his eyelids.

“There you go,” Percival says. “Oh, Credence, I wish I could see your face like this.”

His voice sounds like it comes from deep in Percival’s chest or a hundred miles away.

Credence feels lost.

“Percival,” he whispers. “Percival.”

The man still touches him with a wet hand, even though there's no reason to now. Is there?

He breathes so deeply against Percival’s collar he can taste the starch and cologne on it. When he lifts his head, finally, Percival meets him nose to nose.

“Absolutely beautiful,” he says, looking Credence in the eye.

He can't hear that, not now, so Credence kisses him. A slow, open kiss wets Credence’s mouth and leaves him feeling truly satiated.

“I'm going to finish myself,” Percival says, and pulls his wet hand away from Credence.

Credence feels embarrassed and insufficient for a moment. He’s failed to offer Percival even the pleasure that Percival gave him. An irredeemable sinner — he's not even particularly talented at his sins.

But he wants to be better — not less sinful, but more capable of giving Percival the pleasures that he has just received from the man. Credence has an idea.

“Use my hand,” he says.

“Credence,” Percival says, and Credence looks him in the eye.

They stare at each other.

“Please,” Credence adds.

Percival’s hand is clean and dry when he puts it over Credence’s. Credence licks his lips. Percival squeezes his hand to hold Credence’s tighter and moves both their fists fast and tight against his flesh. What sort of man is Credence that he wanted Percival to touch him with his hand still slick and soiled? Clearly, Percival isn't the same sort of man.

Credence watches, mesmerized, as Percival touches himself with Credence’s hand. Then he glances to Percival’s face, avoiding his stare by looking only at his mouth.

“I want to kiss you,” Credence says, before he does.

Percival kisses back with urgency. He pushes his tongue past Credence’s teeth and breathes the air from his lungs. So Credence kisses back with all the vigor he has left to spare. He uses his teeth. Percival groans and kisses him, somehow, even deeper.

Percival shakes; teeth scrape Credence’s tongue and lower lip. He groans.

Percival’s seed spills onto Credence's hand, sudden and hot.

Credence pulls away from the kiss in surprise. He hears a wet pop as his mouth leaves Percival’s, who looks right at him, his expression flushed and drunk. Credence looks down at their hands and watches. White and wet, it spills out onto Percival’s shirt and runs down their knuckles.

A wicked compulsion strikes Credence to know what it tastes like.

He stares, even as it stops and Percival’s hand slackens around his own. He keeps his hand in place as Percival’s flesh softens. He can hear Percival breathing hard beside him.

Should he ask permission and risk being denied? Or should he risk offending Percival’s good nature and affection?

The longer Credence looks at it, looking like sugar icing spilled on Percival’s tidy clothes, the greater the temptation grows.

When Credence moves his hand, he's astounded to find he's not shaking. He feels quite relaxed. He wipes two fingers through a line of it, smearing it into the fabric of Percival’s shirt more than he gets it on his skin.

“Credence,” Percival says. “What — what are you doing?”

His voice is slightly slurred, like a drunk’s.

Credence puts his fingers in his mouth before Percival even finishes his question. There's no sugar sweetness, just the same bitterness he recognizes from his own body. There's sourness too, like the aftertaste of the black coffee he doesn't actually like. But it's Percival, and now Credence knows what he tastes like, what another man’s seed tastes like.

His fingers still in his mouth, Credence glances at Percival to judge his reaction.

Percival looks at him with his brows raised and his lips parted.

“Credence,” he says, in a tone that Credence doesn't recognize and doesn't know if he can trust.

“You astound me,” he says.

Credence slowly takes his fingers out of his mouth.

“Would you kiss me?” Percival asks him, and Credence wouldn't prefer to do anything else.

He kisses Percival with an open mouth. The snap of fingers cleans him as it did before, and more magic puts Credence’s clothes back to decency. He feels flushed all over with delight at sin and witchcraft.

Shame creeps over him, but he keeps kissing Percival. He has to. Who knows when and where he will ever have this opportunity to kiss him again?  

Leaning up on his knee, Credence puts the weight of his body against Percival.

He puts his hands on Percival’s shoulders and kisses him with increasing desperation.

But when Percival touches his cheek, Credence still flinches away.

The kiss ends.

When Percival takes his hand away, as softly as he’d tried to touch Credence, he has a horrible urge to just press himself face-first against Percival’s hand. Instead he takes a moment to breathe, and to look Percival in the eye.

“I appreciate your kisses,” Percival says, “but I hope you don’t expect a repeat performance all too soon.”

Credence sees his own brows appear in his line of sight as he tries to puzzle out Percival’s meaning. When it strikes him, he blushes hotly.

“No,” he says, backing further off. “I’m satisfied with what you’ve given me. Thank you, Percival.”

“Truly, Credence,” he says, with a sort of soft, lopsided smile on his lips. “It was my pleasure.”

That only makes the hot flush in his cheeks grow hotter. He feels blood prickling the skin on the back of his neck.

“I know it’s rather early,” Percival says, “but would you like to have dinner with me?”

“Yes,” Credence says. He can’t make himself meet Percival’s eyes anymore, but even the sight of Percival’s clothing — once again made pristine and tidy — reminds him of everything they’ve done together. It seems beyond Credence’s wildest dreams.

No, no, it is but the first taste of Credence’s dreams. If this were to fulfill his wildest dreams they would be in bed and there would be no clothing and he would not be leaving New York City in a matter of days.

“I’m not much of a cook, as you now know, but I can easily have something ordered,” Percival tells him.

Credence looks at his hands on Percival’s shoulders

“Let me cook for you,” he says. “Please.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Percival says. “Why not let me be a gracious host?”

“I want to cook for you,” Credence says.

“Well,” Percival says, “it would be ungracious of me to refuse you, then.”

“Yes,” Credence says. “It would be very ungracious.”

He feels himself smile a little, even though his face feels like it’s on fire from his collar to his scalp. He chances a look at Percival’s mouth, which he still wants to kiss, and finds that Percival is smiling back at him.

“You’ll have to let me go if we’re going to make it to the kitchen,” Percival says.

When Credence sighs, he feels rather shaky. But his hands are steady when he moves them down Percival’s shirt sleeves and finally lets him go.

Percival stands up first, leaning heavily on the arm of the loveseat. Credence follows him like a shadow.

“I purchased groceries today,” Percival says. “I’m not sure what you have in mind, but feel free to look around.”

Credence already knows where everything important is in the cupboards, and Percival must know that from catching him at his peeking. He wouldn’t consider himself an excellent cook; he doesn’t have Queenie’s skills. But he knows what he’s doing, or at least enough not to burn anything or cut himself.

He opens the icebox with magic, just to show Percival that he can.

There is more meat there than even the Goldsteins’ keep, though Credence understands they don’t eat much of it. Credence would enjoy making a steak and potatoes dinner to equal the sort of fancy dining club or restaurant that Percival probably visits regularly, seeing as he’s a wealthy bachelor who can’t even properly slice a tomato for himself. Credence does not know of magic and many other things, but he is not completely ignorant.

Instead, he takes a filet of fish and cleans it with magic, stripping off the scales without even dirtying his hands.

Better not to risk ruining a good, and doubtlessly expensive, piece of red meat, he thinks.

The wonders of magic make it easy to slice and roast root vegetables in a tiny fraction of the time it would take without. Credence looks forward to the rest of his life wherein he never, ever has to peel a vegetable by hand again.

“You really do enjoy this,” Percival says, as though he’s amazed by something.

“Yes,” Credence says. “I don’t know how one couldn’t enjoy magic.”

That’s a lie. He does know, of course.

“I meant cooking,” Percival says. “Which might as well be its own branch of magic, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Queenie says so,” Credence says. “That is, Miss Goldstein’s sister.”

“She’s a legilimens, isn’t she?” Percival asks.

Credence nods without looking.

“An innate ability — and wandless, of course,” Percival says. “But not a guarantee that the witch or wizard will know even a fraction of the truth.”

He continues, “Do you know what occlumency is?”

“No,” Credence says, honestly. He’s heard the term. He took enough from the trial to know that Percival practices whatever it is — and so does the man who pretended to be Percival.

“Would you like to know?” Percival asks him.

Credence nods, and turns the fish over to keep it from burning.

So Percival tells him. He leans against the counter as he talks, using some terms that Credence doesn’t know but can guess at. He talks about thoughts and memories, truth and lies, and nothingness. Percival speaks with his hands, and Credence watches every gesture from the corner of his eye. He admires the space that Percival takes up in the kitchen, or in any place he happens to be.

He has always admired that; the way that Percival stands and speaks as if the world owes him its attention.

And even in his shirt sleeves and waistcoat, he looks impeccable. Now, Credence knows that part of why Percival always looked so perfectly clean and put together, no matter the weather, is because of magic. But it’s also a matter of Percival.

Certainly Tina and Newt have just as much magic, but much less attention to spare for odd bits of lint or strange stains.

Percival keeps on talking, even as Credence serves the dinner he’s made on two china plates.

He’s saying something about wizards in the mountains north of China and making the body invulnerable through the use of the mind and magic. Credence accepts that what Percival says likely is true, even if it seems both impossible and ridiculous.

Learning about magic from Percival is nothing at all like learning about it from the man who pretended to be Percival. It’s also not what Credence imagined it would be. Percival’s not even the sort of teacher that Newt is, who often stops to ask if Credence understands. Of all the witches and wizards that Credence knows, he thinks perhaps Queenie is the best at teaching magic. But she has the advantage of knowing when Credence is only pretending to understand.

Still, he likes to listen to Percival talk.

“You’re very quiet, Credence,” Percival says.

“I’m listening,” he says. Besides, it would be rude to talk with food in his mouth.

“Do tell me if I’m boring you,” Percival says, as though that could happen.

“Not at all,” Credence tells him.

Silence falls heavy enough that Credence looks up and finds Percival looking at him with suspicion.

“Mr. Scamander says that the Phoenix lives in that part of the world,” he says. “I’m not sure if he’s travelled there, but he included it in his manuscript.”

“You’ve read it?” Percival asks.

“I offered to look it over,” Credence says.

Percival nods his head and looks at Credence in a way he cannot hope to interpret.

“I believe Mr. Scamander is the expert here,” Percival says. “But, as far as I’m aware, that area does export much of the phoenix feathers used in wand manufacturing.”

And, with very little prompting, Credence gets him talking about wand manufacturing. By this time, Credence is only listening to Percival’s voice. He doubts he’ll truly recall the contents of what Percival’s telling him tomorrow or the next day.

After they’ve eaten an early dinner, Percival insists on doing the dishes, though it takes only a few minutes with magic. Credence sits at the kitchen table and feels rather useless, but watches the sink fill with water and the china gently wash itself.

“I could have done that for you,” he says, as the plates float back into their places in the cabinets.

“I don’t doubt that,” Percival says. “But if I’d let you, what sort of man would I be?”

He snaps the cabinets shut with the twirl of his index finger, then looks over his shoulder at Credence.

“Thank you for making dinner,” he says. “It was the best thing I’ve had in weeks, I think. Perhaps ever.”

Credence feels his face grow a little warm, but he smiles.

“I don’t imagine that you drink,” Percival says. “Do the Goldsteins drink?”

Intemperance, Credence thinks, makes men as lowly as the rats that crawl through the city’s sewers — and just as likely to end up drowned in a gutter.

But it’s not as though Credence hasn’t committed worse sins today.

“I think they do sometimes,” he says.

“And do you join them?” Percival asks.

“No,” Credence says.

“I’d offer you a drink, if you wanted one,” Percival says. “Or I could make coffee.”

As he says this, Percival leans on the counter. He has one hand tucked in his pocket and all of his weight resting on one leg. The other is tucked behind him, so that his body makes one graceful, slanted line. Credence traces the shape of him with his eyes.

“I would accept a drink from you,” he says.

“Then I’ll offer one,” Percival replies.

Credence watches him take a bottle from the cupboard and two small glasses. The bottle, apparently, has never been opened. Credence doesn’t know what to think of that. If Percival hopes to impress him with this, Credence hopes that alcohol is as pleasurable a sin as some others he’s enjoyed today.

The drink is close to the color of tea, Credence thinks. Little streams of bubbles rise from the bottom of it.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Supposedly,” Percival says, “it’s a good vintage.”

Credence doesn’t know what that means, and he doubts it matters unless one makes a habit of drinking.

“Would you like to go out to the sitting room?” Percival asks. He gestures to the doorway of the kitchen with the bottle of alcohol still in his hand.

“Yes,” Credence says, if only because the loveseat is more comfortable than the kitchen chairs.

He doesn’t expect to start blushing when he sees it, but the sitting room has grown dark. The lights come on at the snap of Percival’s fingers and a mismatched end table zips in from another room.

Credence sits down and clutches the arm of the loveseat in his free hand.

“I promise it’s not poison,” Percival says.

This makes Credence look up from his drink. It’s such a small amount — only a swallow.

“I didn’t think it was,” Credence says.

As he watches, Percival tips his glass against his lips and swallows.

Before he has even taken the glass from his mouth, Percival’s chest shakes with a small chuckle. He smiles so broadly that Credence can see his teeth. It makes his heart beat a little faster.

His hand shakes slightly as he lifts the glass to his mouth. The alcohol smells sweet under his nose, but something about it makes him feel like he might sneeze.

In a single swallow, he drinks the whole glass — imitating Percival as exactly as he can. It burns warmly against the back of his tongue, then all the way down his throat. Credence feels the bubbliness behind his nose and shuts his eyes tight.

The drink hits his stomach warm, far warmer than one little swallow should be. The warmth lingers, tickling Credence from inside. He clenches his fist around the small glass. Then he clenches his teeth.

He feels something bubbling up in his chest, light and frighteningly good. His cheeks begin to flush. Sweat gathers at the nape of his neck.

“Credence, are you alright?” Percival asks.

Credence opens his mouth and what comes out might be a laugh or it might be a sob. It seems like a huge gasp. The feeling in his chest dissipates.

When he blinks, there are tears in his eyes.

“Maybe this gigglewater is a bit strong,” Percival says.

“Gigglewater?” Credence says. He can’t possibly be drunk from one swallow of alcohol, can he? He turns and glares at Percival, who is obviously to blame.

“It’s a bit like champagne and brandy together,” Percival says. “Plus a very mild cheering charm.”

“Does it always feel like that?” he asks.

Percival looks at him and blinks. “What did it feel like?”

“Warm,” Credence says. “And like my chest was full of tiny bubbles.”

“I suppose that’s a way to describe it,” Percival says. “You have a certain way with words.”

When Credence doesn’t say anything, Percival adds, “That was a compliment.”

“Thank you,” he says.

“Would you like a glass of water?” Percival asks.

When he starts to get up, Credence snatches him by his shirt sleeve. Percival stops, so Credence immediately lets him go.

“No,” he says. “I’m fine.”

“Alright,” Percival says. “I’m going to have another glass, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t,” Credence says.

A second glass of this gigglewater makes Percival chuckle in the same way, and smile. Credence feels that same lightness in his chest. He doesn’t know quite what it is, but he might say that it hurts if only it hurt a little more than it does.

He sighs.

“I’ll regret it terribly if I let you leave without telling you again how beautiful you are,” Percival says.

“You’re drunk,” Credence says.

“No,” Percival says. “But drinking makes a lovely excuse to shower you with praise.”

Credence looks at Percival only from the corner of his eye.

“Not as lovely as you, of course,” Percival says.

“You’re being ridiculous again,” Credence says. “I’ll blame the drink.”

“As I hoped you would,” Percival says, pouring himself another.

This time, Credence anticipates the laugh and the smile that follows it. Still, it leaves him warmer than the alcohol.

“I would regret it if I left without kissing you again,” Credence says, looking at the empty glass in his hand.

“Then you should kiss me,” Percival says.

Credence turns himself nearly in half and reaches out with his open hand for Percival’s cheek. His first kiss is chaste, but the second is less so. Percival tastes like sweet, effervescent alcohol.

For a moment, Credence feels such bliss that he forgets how wicked all of this is. It slips his mind as Percival’s tongue slides against his own. He doesn’t even feel the urgency of his own departure. He doesn’t really think about anything at all.

“Mr. Percival Graves of Apartment 602,” a very loud female voice says.

Credence leaps away from Percival so quickly he almost tips backwards over the arm of the loveseat.

“You have a pair of visitors,” the voice says.

“Who is it?” Percival says.

“Uh,” Tina’s voice says, so loud it seems to fill the whole apartment. “Tina Goldstein, sir. I’m, well, I’m back. It’s getting pretty late.”

“Why don’t you come up?” Percival says.

“Oh, uhm, you know Newt — Mr. Scamander is with me,” she says. “Is that alright?”

“Hello, Mr. Graves,” Newt’s voice says, also incredibly loud.

Credence gets up off the loveseat and goes to get his shoes. He doesn’t want to go, but he knows he has to.

“Yes, yes,” Percival says, waving his hand as if he were having a real conversation.

“Both of you are welcome,” he says. “Idaea, let them up.”

All the joy of the last few moments, the last few hours, drains out of Credence like blood from a slaughterhouse pig. He swallows down the sour fear that rises up inside him.

Tina will know what he did — somehow he knows that she’ll know. She’ll hate him. She would be right to despise him for it. And Newt, of course, how could he stand to invite someone as corrupt as Credence into his life? Any man should be disgusted to know the kinds of things that rattle around inside Credence’s head. He wonders how Queenie can even stomach being around him, able to see into minds as she can.

“Credence,” Percival says, in a tone of voice that makes Credence freeze in place.

“What is the matter?” Percival asks him.

Isn’t it obvious?

“Does it upset you that much?” Percival asks. “I mean, leaving? I’m not… I don’t want you to go, Credence. But you should know that you deserve a chance at a life of your own.”

He blinks, looking at a corner of the plaster wall. The more he blinks, the blurrier the edge between plaster and baseboard grows.

“I’m not,” Percival says. “I’m terrible at this sort of thing, what to do when people cry, people that I care about. I don’t want to frighten you —”

“I am not frightened!” Credence snaps, feeling anger spike through him like a spear through the ribs.

“Alright,” Percival says. “I believe you.”

His voice stays steady and even, with that commanding tone that Credence could never imitate if he practiced it for a thousand years.

Credence can’t breathe through his nose anymore, so he takes heaving breaths in through his mouth. Someone knocks on the door, probably Tina. Credence scrubs his shirt sleeve across his eyes.

“They can wait,” Percival says. “Tell me what you need. What can I do?”

“Nothing,” Credence says. This will pass. He can control it. He has always controlled it.

He is terribly wicked. He lies to everyone he knows. He feels such unnatural things for Percival, yet has been so unfaithful and whorish as well.

And Percival treats him with kindness and tenderness, but he’s just as bad, isn’t he? He’s a witch and a sodomite, obviously. He drinks, and he must be terribly vain and proud to live as he does. He lied to Credence, when Credence trusted him and loved him — albeit, unnaturally.

Everything Credence wants, he cannot have. When he gets even a taste of it, he becomes insatiable. He is a monster to his very bones, which feel made of smoke and frost.

Someone knocks upon the door.

“Credence,” Percival says, but softly.

He stands close enough for Credence to grab him with both hands. He stands close enough for Credence to strangle him. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t move at all.

“I won’t let you leave upset with me,” Percival says.

“Credence?” Tina calls from outside the door. “Mr. Graves?”

Someday, Credence thinks, they will all realize he shouldn’t be treated with kindness and soft voices. But if they haven’t realized that by now, it will certainly be too late when they do. It doesn’t matter anyway.

“You must have astounding control over it,” Percival says.

Credence looks at him, feeling like a vicious animal.

“You’re shaking,” Percival says. “I suppose… With anger? Are you angry with me? But you’re standing here as flesh and blood.”

“Yes,” Credence says. He _is_ angry — other things, as well, but certainly angry.

“You can… I’d say you can hex me, but I’d be a bit afraid of that right now,” Percival says. “If I’m honest. I know you must have your reasons to be angry, though. I suppose you could punch me. That would be easy to fix, and you might feel better.”

Credence feels his lip curling away from his teeth. “What?”

“If you get a proper wand,” Percival says. “And I ever get mine back, I could teach you how to duel. Though I’m sure Tina could as well, she’s a quick shot with a curse.”

Credence scowls.

“I can hear voices in there!” Tina shouts, which makes Credence’s shoulders tense up to his ears.

“You shouldn’t be able to!” Percival shouts back.

He stalks over to the door; even without the usual coat tails trailing behind him, it’s a sight. The door opens only as far as the chain allows.

“You are interrupting,” Percival says.

“You invited me,” Tina says, just as sharp as Percival is cold.

Credence’s anger feels doused by ice water.

“Don’t fight,” he says.

Percival looks over his shoulder, and Credence sees Tina peeking over the top of his hair.

“I don’t want you to fight,” Credence says. How stupid would it be to fight over him anyway?

“I’m not —” Percival starts.

Tina shushes him. He scowls thunderously, and turns to look at her.

“Credence?” Newt’s voice rises from the other side of the door. “May we come in?”

Credence shakes himself. He feels — well, he feels too many things. It has been a very strange day. Tomorrow morning he might imagine it was all a dream. He feels dizzy.

“You should let them in, Percival,” Credence says. “You’re being an ungracious host.”

When Percival looks at him, the scowl has disappeared.

“You’re right,” he says, and the door swings open.

“Credence,” Tina says, as soon as she’s through the door. “I’m so sorry we’re late — I’m late. I didn’t mean to be. I hope it didn’t upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” Credence says, and pretends that Percival isn’t looking at him the way he is.

“Oh,” Tina says. “That’s good.”

“May I offer you a drink, Miss Goldstein?” Percival asks. “Mr. Scamander?”

“No, no,” Tina says. “I couldn’t.”

Credence notices that neither of them will look Percival in the eye, which he thinks is fair. He can’t either.

“Did you have a nice afternoon?” she asks. “I mean, evening? Afternoon and evening?”

“Yes,” Credence says, and tries not to think about anything that they did.

“Having second thoughts about London?” Newt asks him.

Credence looks at him and, for a rare moment, Newt looks him dead in the eye. Then, almost instantly, they both look away.

“Yes,” he says.

He pauses for a moment before he adds, “I still want to go to London. And Mr. Graves agrees.”

“I do,” Percival says. “I’m sorry to see Credence go, of course. But London’s a good place to be a wizard.”

“Yes,” Newt says. “I agree.”

“Wow,” Tina says. “You all sound like you’re just thrilled about it.”

“Astute observation, Goldstein,” Percival says.

“Well,” she says, tapping the toe of her shoe against the floor. “I would be pretty happy to go to London.”

“I wonder why that would be,” Percival says.

When Credence looks, Tina’s mouth is twisted into an unhappy frown. She’s glaring at Percival, who isn’t looking at her.

“I need my shoes,” Credence says. That’s what he was looking for, he realizes, when he started to pace the sitting room. Percival took his shoes off his feet by magic and now Credence doesn’t know where they went.

“Ah,” Percival says. Then he lifts his hand and beckons into the air. A door swings open, and Credence’s shoes zip across the floor to Percival. With another motion, they come right to Credence.

He picks his shoes up and goes over to the loveseat to get them back on, since they’ve been laced up tight.

“I thought you would have more furniture,” Tina says.

“I did,” Percival says.

“Oh,” Tina says. “Sorry.”

Credence quickly ties his shoes and stands back up.

“I have a bag of things,” Credence says. “And I have to get my coat.”

“I can carry your bag for you,” Newt says.

“You don’t have to,” Credence says.

“It’s no difficulty,” Newt says. “I ought to be holding it when we apparate anyway.”

Credence looks at the floor and wonders how he should argue with that. He doesn’t understand magic enough. He walks past both Percival and Tina to show Newt his bag.

“Is that your coat?” Newt asks about the coat Percival just gave Credence today.

“Yes,” Credence says. “Now it is. But it’s not the coat I wore here.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Newt says. “I knew that.”

Credence suspects that he, in fact, did not.

When he turns back to Tina and Percival, they have their heads bent together and seem to be speaking in whispers. He watches for a while, unwilling to interrupt.

“Ahem,” Newt says, on his behalf.

Both their heads snap up and look over.

“Credence still needs his coat,” Newt says.

“Of course,” Percival says. He tucks something into his pocket before Credence can see it, then goes over to the coat rack to take down Credence’s borrowed coat.

“May I?” he asks, when Credence comes over to him.

He doesn’t know what Percival is asking until he holds up Credence’s coat by the shoulders. It’s Tina’s coat, really, and his new coat is really Percival’s. Credence holds out the new one and in a moment, they exchange them. This small act makes Percival smile and Credence cannot help but smile in return.

“Yes,” Credence says. “Thank you.”

He is perfectly capable of putting Percival’s coat on himself, but he likes the way they nearly touch as he puts his arms into the sleeves.

When Credence turns, he finds himself looking at Percival’s face from close enough to kiss.

For a moment, Credence wants to forget that Tina and Newt are also in the room. He wants to repeat Percival’s words back at him, “May I?” He wants Percival to tell him that he may. He wants to put his mouth on Percival’s again.

“Could you give us a moment?” Percival says, looking over Credence’s shoulder.

“Yes, sir,” Tina says. “We’ll be right outside. Come on, Newt.”

Credence can only blink.

“We’ll meet you in the lobby, alright, Credence?” she says, on her way out the door.

“It’s a quick hop back to the flat,” Newt says, with his stilted smile that Credence knows he doesn’t mean. “It was a pleasure again, Mr. Graves.”

“Yes, nice to see you, sir,” Tina says, before the door shuts.

“I apologize,” Percival says, while the chain of the door falls into place. Credence hears the locks turn.

“I wasn’t comfortable kissing you in front of a former employee,” he says.

“That’s reasonable,” Credence says.

“May I kiss you now?” Percival says. “To say good-bye.”

“Yes,” Credence says.

He puts his arms around Percival’s neck and kisses him with an open mouth. He feels too many things, really. But the feeling of his lips on Percival’s seems the easiest thing in the world.

“Thank you,” Credence says, with his lips brushing Percival’s. “Thank you so much.”  
  


“I don’t understand you,” Percival whispers back at him. “But I love you. I fear I always will.”

“I hope you do,” Credence says.

He kisses Percival again, until he longs for the feeling of Percival’s hands on him. He wants to be held.

“Hold me,” he says, nearly losing the words upon Percival’s tongue.

His body jerks when Percival touches him, but Credence continues to kiss him.

Eventually, though, Credence knows he has to go.

“If I can’t return to New York,” Credence says, “would you visit me?”

“Anywhere in the world,” Percival says.

He doesn’t know if he believes that, but he wants to.

“Thank you,” he says.

Credence’s arms slip from Percival’s shoulders and he holds them stiffly at his sides, as usual. He tries one last time to memorize Percival’s face.

“Shall I get the door?” Percival asks.

“Yes,” Credence says. “Please.”

The door opens by magic, and Credence feels that it must take magic for him to walk through it. No natural force could make him leave.

“Good-bye, Credence,” Percival says.

Credence bites at the side of his tongue and can’t seem to make himself say anything at all.

He turns and walks to the stairs, hearing the door shut behind him.

If he turned himself to smoke, he could sneak back under the door. He has hidden himself before. He once lived a life where no one knew what he was, even Percival. He could keep himself secret again. Wouldn’t Percival keep him secret?

His feet carry him down one flight of stairs, then the next.

He could stay, his mind screams. He should stay!

What sort of creature is he to walk away from a man who loves him? All those months he imagined that Percival could save him from his life, all those weeks he wrote letters to him, and now Credence is leaving him behind. He feels wretched through and through, even in his bones. But he doesn’t cry.

“Already?” Tina asks, when Credence opens the door to the lobby.

Mute, Credence nods his head.

“Good-bye, Mr. Credence!” Idaea the painting says, but he doesn’t say anything in return. It’s very rude of him, but he’s afraid of what might come out of his mouth if he opens it.

The three of them, with Newt carrying Credence’s new-but-old suitcase, step into an alley off Park Avenue and suddenly appear in an alley off W 24th Street.

“Should we disguise ourselves?” Newt asks.

“Mrs. Esposito can go burn,” Tina says. “I am so tired.”

Credence agrees, but he doesn’t say anything.

Queenie sits in the apartment already in her pajamas. Somehow, she looks right at Credence though he avoids looking at her. He expects her to say something — something sharp or funny about what he did.

“I need to go to bed,” Tina says. “Queenie, do you think you could take Credence shopping for a pair of gloves tomorrow? Mr. Graves hassled me about it.”

“Sure, Teenie,” she says. “Anything for Credence.”

Newt disappears not long after Tina, leaving Credence alone with Queenie.

“He’s right, you know?” she says, as the clock ticks past nine.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Credence says.

“Mr. Graves says you’re a good guy, and you are,” Queenie says. “I mean, I don’t really trust that Mr. Graves myself, but he’s right about you. You’re a good egg.”

He doesn’t feel good. He feels rotten and sulfurous inside.

“Get some sleep,” Queenie tells him. “You’ll feel better in the morning, sugar.”

For another hour or so, Credence lies awake thinking that she can’t possibly be right. He will never feel better. He’s ruined in so many ways. But she’s right. He falls asleep eventually and wakes up with drool on his cheek and a head full of dreams about Percival Graves. That’s usually how Credence wakes up anyway, only his dreams are much, much more realistic now.

Wearing a coat over his pajamas, Credence sneaks to the bathroom, and emerges swiftly as a decent man — or an approximation of one.

He starts the coffee, but doesn’t bother greeting Tina as she heads to the bathroom down the hall.

Credence makes breakfast. Queenie calls him sugar again when she wakes up. Newt wakes up last.

“We leave tomorrow,” he says, over breakfast. It makes Credence feel sick to his stomach.

On her lunch break, Queenie comes back to the apartment to pick Credence up. They go to Macy’s, for the second time, and it is just as chaotic as the first time. But this time they know where the men’s gloves are. They buy a pair of black leather gloves for Credence, which fit even better than the last pair he had and come up well past his wrists so it doesn’t matter if Percival’s coat falls a bit short.

“Where did you get the money for these?” he asks Queenie.

“Sorry, sugar, I’ve been sworn to secrecy,” she tells him, patting his shoulder.

On Monday night, Queenie makes a blueberry pie so sweet that Credence never wants to taste anything else ever again. She writes down the recipe and tells him that the crust is just as good if he has to make it by hand.

Tina stays up while Credence packs everything he owns into the alligator-skin bag that Percival gave him. They argue about her coat, which she insists he keep.

“It gets cold in London,” she says. “And it’s wet. I read it’s really foggy.”

Every American witch and wizard grows up reading about London, Tina thinks, but Credence probably doesn’t know.

Eventually, Credence folds up her grey coat and stuffs it into the bag that Mr. Graves gave him. Just looking at it, Tina guesses it cost twenty Dragots or more. Probably it’s part of a set and Mr. Graves doesn’t even care that one bag will be gone forever. He made her take a fistful of money to give to Credence. Part of it, Tina had Queenie convert to dollars for Credence’s gloves. The other part of it, most of it, she’ll convert to British gold and send once Credence gets to London.

It still doesn’t feel like enough.

But London — well, it’s probably not everything that Tina imagines it is, but Newt works for a beast division in the Ministry and he’s no exterminator. Tina suspects the whole division might just be Newt Scamander, but she hasn’t asked. Either way, everyone knows that London is full of ghosts and witches. The Ministry even works with the No-Maj government over there across the Atlantic.

No one’s going to hurt Credence over there.

Newt will protect him as fiercely as he does his suitcase full of creatures.

So what is she so damn sad about?

It can’t be that Credence and Mr. Graves are getting split up. First of all, they’ll be fine. Graves has her in on this plan to send letters. And, besides, he has plenty of money to buy himself a Portkey to London whenever he wants to. He doesn’t work for MACUSA anymore and he’s probably got more free time than he knows what to do with.

Actually, that is a little sad, but Tina knows she’s not sad about _that_.

Tina sits in her favorite spot on the sofa and stares at the illustration at the top of this chapter in her No-Maj story about a No-Maj detective. She’s so glad there’s no laws against buying No-Maj stuff, cause she loves these ridiculous pulps.

Is she sad because she doesn’t have the kind of easy money that Mr. Graves has? She might never see Credence again.

Alright, Tina thinks as she shuts the magazine. She is sad about that. But she knows he’s better off anywhere but America. America’s not perfect, she knows, and MACUSA isn’t either. But both have really let down Credence Barebone, who deserves better.

Let him go to London and save up for a wand from Ollivander's and try every kind of sweet at Honeydukes. He deserves it.

Tina, maybe, is sad because she’s not going with him. Hasn’t she always dreamed of what it would be? Wizards in London are all old-timey, aren’t they? They wear robes all the time and have accents and… It’s just different.

That night, Tina falls asleep thinking not of London, but of the evening she spent out in New York with Newt. She should be thinking about Credence. She should be thinking about her work on the investigative team. She should be thinking of anything else.

Her alarm wakes Tina up, and she finds Queenie already out of bed.

“Good morning,” her sister says, when Tina peeks out of their bedroom.

“I’ve already un-expanded your linen closet,” Newt says, which is very confusing to Tina within only ten minutes of her gaining consciousness.

She really will miss Credence, who does not try to speak to her until after she’s washed her face and had a few sips of coffee.

“Have you ever left New York?” Credence asks her, in a tone so quiet it borders on conspiratorial.

“For school,” she says. “And a couple of times for work.”

He looks at his breakfast.

“You’ll be fine,” she says. “New York pretty much prepares you for anywhere in the world.”

Her sister is talking to Newt about bagels and scones, which Tina really couldn’t care less about.

“We’ll just have to come visit you,” Queenie says, and Tina pretends she didn’t hear.

Newt doesn’t exactly sound excited by the prospect anyway.

Credence is wearing new clothes and the coat he got from Mr. Graves.

Tina feels like he’s going off to school, or something, because she asks the same question she asked Queenie every fall before they left for Massachusetts.

“Do you have everything?”

“I think so,” he says.

“You’re gonna write to us, aren’tcha?” Queenie asks. “You can’t just be writing to Mr. Graves and ignoring me. I’ll be so hurt.”

“I’ll write,” Credence says.

“I’m only teasing,” she says. “I know you will.”

She smiles so sweetly at him, and Credence smiles back just slightly. Already, he looks like a different man. There’s hair growing in around his ears where that awful woman shaved him right to the scalp.

He only tenses up a little when Queenie hugs him, and she hugs him tight around the ribs. He puts an arm around her shoulders and pats her back.

“Now, you make sure Newt’s getting proper dinners, and I’ll make sure that Tina and Mr. Graves take care of themselves for you,” she says.

Credence nods his head very solemnly, and Queenie giggles over whatever it is he’s thinking.

Tina feels her heart in her throat. Something about the two of them, smiling at each other and safe and alive, it hits her right in the chest.

“May I?” Credence asks, and Tina startles slightly.

“What?” she asks.

“May I hug you?” he asks.

“Oh,” she says. “Yes! Yes, of course, Credence, come here.”

The first time they touched, she remembers, he was crying and bleeding and she was scared to do anything more than whisper. She was scared to touch him and he shrank away from her, pulling in on himself. She knew she’d have to obliviate him, and she did, but it obviously didn’t stick. He’s got to remember that.

Now, he’s stiff, but he puts his arms around her and she finds her chin on his shoulder.

Neither of them flinches too much.

“I’ll really miss you,” she says. “It’s really been an adventure.”

And that’s just it, isn’t it? The past month has felt like flying without a broomstick. Sometimes her stomach was so far up her throat she thought she might hurl. Other times it felt like it was dropped to her ankles. Everything that could go wrong has, but it’s all somehow worked out for the best.

In the end, all of Newt’s creatures are safe and so is Credence Barebone. That’s a victory, right? She and Newt saved the city and MACUSA. Credence saved himself _and_ Mr. Graves.

“I’ll miss you too,” he says, holding her a little tighter.

“I promise I’ll write you all about anything that happens in New York,” she says.

Credence takes this deep breath like he’s going to say something, but then he doesn’t.

Tina would look to her sister for guidance, but Credence’s head is in the way. They still haven’t let go of each other.

“Will you check on Mr. Graves?” Credence asks.

“Absolutely,” Tina says. She was going to do that anyway.

“I hope I see you again,” Credence says, when he finally starts to let go.

“Me too,” Tina says.

“Thank you, Tina,” he says.

She feels the strongest urge to kiss his forehead, of all things, as though he were a little boy and not a full-grown man. Tina can only laugh at herself, and it makes Credence scowl slightly.

“You’re welcome,” she says. “Sorry, Credence, I’m being ridiculous.”

“I don’t think you’re ridiculous,” he says, his voice very flat and serious.

She just laughs more, mostly at herself.

“Don’t let Newt get you into any trouble,” she says, as though Credence isn’t his own kind of trouble entirely.

“I won’t,” he says.

“Well,” Tina says, rocking back on her heels. She wore one of her mother’s nice blouses and a pair of heeled boots today. She’s even wearing silk stockings. The weather is terribly warm for January, but it was terribly cold over the weekend.

“I should go now,” Credence says. “I don’t want to make you late.”

“I’m hardly worried about that,” Newt says, stalking through the sitting room.

Apparently, when Tina was making sure that Credence had packed, she should have made sure Newt had too.

“Are you ready to go?” Newt asks.

Credence nods.

Tina feels herself starting to tear up when he climbs into the suitcase, with his back stiff and his head bowed.

“Teenie, honey,” Queenie says quietly, “I’m gonna head to work. I’ll see you tonight, alright?”

Her sister kisses her cheek.

“Just the two of us, then?” Newt asks. He clicks something on the latch of his suitcase and Tina wonders if it’s a lock or something else. Then he taps it with his wand and a few strands of twine tie themselves around the whole thing.

“Yes,” she says. “Just the two of us.”

“Should I — shall I disguise myself to get downstairs?” he asks. “In case of Mrs. Esposito.”

“Oh,” Tina says. “I mean, if you want to, I guess?”

Apparently he must, because in less than a minute, they’re both standing around in skirts and heels.

Newt gives her an awkward smile. Tina can’t help it, she laughs. She feels like crying still, but it’s funny. Maybe he’s trying to be funny?

“Alright,” he says. “Shall we go, Miss Goldstein?”

“Yes, Mr. Scamander,” she says, “I think we should.”

In the alley near her building, Newt returns to his normal attire.

“You’ve got everything, right?” she asks. “All your socks and all your creatures.”

“Uh,” Newt says, looking to the side. “Yes. Yes, I’m sure.”

Tina won’t be particularly surprised if she finds a wool sock with dancing badgers on it under the sitting room sofa, but she really would not like to find any more weird beasts in New York.

“Let’s get you to the port, then,” she says, and tries to smile.

Newt smiles back, but it falters quickly off his face. “Yes, of course.”

Apparating to the port has certain risks, but Tina knows a good spot. They don’t have to walk far from there, though the streets are crawling with people. Newt hits some of them with his suitcase, but they don’t even turn and glare. Tina doesn’t bother apologizing.

The closer they get to the ships, the thicker the crowds feel.

Tina feels her throat closing up. Her wand is poking her in the hip.

They stop about twenty feet from the boarding plank for second class. Tina thinks, irrationally, about how quiet it will be in the apartment tonight. No more sullen looks from Credence across the dining table. No more of Newt’s chipper tales about getting bitten by exotic creatures in far-off lands. No more of Queenie’s out-of-the-blue laughter over something one of them is thinking — she’s been pretending it’s the book she’s reading, but Tina has known Queenie since before she could read. No book has ever made her laugh this much.

“It’s been, uhm,” Newt starts to say.

“Hasn’t it?” Tina says, as though she really knows what he’s going to say. Maybe he had a terrible time in New York! How does she know what Newt’s thinking?

Then she says something, just a bunch of dumb stuff that’s right at the top of her head. It’s not what she really wants to say, of course, but she doesn’t know what she wants to say.

It’s not like Newt can stay. Madame Picquery would have both their heads.

And Credence will be safer if he’s anywhere but New York City.

But the thing is — the heart of the matter is that Newt stumbled into her life and turned it completely upside down. When he showed up, Tina was trying to avoid her wand office job in disgrace, Credence Barebone was suffering in, well, obscurity, and Gellert Grindelwald was running around New York pretending to be Percival Graves. Who knows what would have happened if Newt hadn’t shown up!

But that’s just Tina’s life, and he’s got to go back to his own, right? The Ministry, his book, London, a beautiful woman with flowers in her hair.

Tina’s not a part of Newt’s life. Not even a little bit.

He makes a joke, “Well, I can’t think of anyone that I’d rather have investigating me.”

But he doesn’t look at her when he smiles. It falters. She doesn’t know if she should smile back or not.

Newt promises her — though she doubts it’s a promise he can keep — to live quietly.

Then, something happens. Tina’s not even sure how it happens.

He looks at her. He’s not even smiling. It’s just Newt looking right at her, as though she’s said something so amazing he doesn’t even know how to react. She looks back.

This, this is the thing she kept hoping would happen in the parks and at Woolworth’s food counters. It’s the thing that would’ve been better timed if it had happened anytime that whole afternoon she spent with Newt trying very, very hard not to think about what Credence and Mr. Graves were doing.

The worst possible place for this to happen, Tina thinks, is at the docks by the boarding plank for the steamer that Newt has to get on in the next five minutes.

If it had been any other time, she thinks. Maybe she would know what to do or what to say.

Instead, she asks, “Does Leta Lestrange like to read?”

Because it’s finally happening and she can’t just _let_ whatever it is happen, she’s got to trip over it instead.

It’s all much too late and now? Now, she’s going to cry.

Shouldn’t it be enough that they’re all alive and alright? It’s not, somehow. It just isn’t.

“I’ve changed,” Newt says, “I think. Maybe a little.”

As though he hasn’t completely rearranged her life in under a month.

She’s definitely crying when he says he’ll send her a copy of the book. But she still smiles, because he’s so sweetly earnest. She does, actually, want to read the book.

Then Newt touches her hair and his thumbnail brushes against her cheek when he — well, she has to assume he was tucking a hair away, but she didn’t feel any hairs touching her face. She only felt his hand.

When he’s gone, she touches the spot on her cheek that his thumb touched. She feels completely ridiculous.

But she looks up and Newt’s there again.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “How would you feel if I — if I gave you your copy in person?”

“I would like that,” Tina says, but that’s not enough is it? “Very much.”

And she thinks, for just a moment, not that he’s going to stay, but that he might… Well, he might kiss her. That’s ridiculous, of course, they don’t know each other like that. He’s leaving the country and the ship’s about to leave.

Really, it’s more like Tina realizes she wants him to kiss her. She really wants to kiss him. This could be the perfect moment for it, but all she does is look at him until he turns away. He has, she thinks, very beautiful eyes. And freckles. There’s a little scar on the bridge of his nose, and it’s completely charming.

Then Newt gets on the Royal Star Steam Company ship, with his second-class ticket. Smuggled in his suitcase, she knows, are countless magical beasts and one Credence Barebone. In the United States of America, by the decree of the Magical Congress, any of them should be cursed-to-kill on sight.

And so they’ve all got to go.

It’s safer that way, Tina thinks. They’ll be safe in London.

She thinks this for three days, which is when the Ministry of Magic wins its petition to extradite Gellert Grindelwald to England.

Then, Tina Goldstein’s not so sure how safe London is.

But she wants London to be safe. She wants Credence and Newt and all of Newt’s animals to be safe. And she trusts Newt. Really, she does.

After a week, Tina thinks, they should be safely landed. They’ll write. Even if Newt forgets, she’s certain that Credence will write. Maybe not to her, but he’ll write to Mr. Graves and then he’ll feel guilty if he doesn’t also write at least once to her too, since she offered to deliver his letters to Mr. Graves.

She has dinner with Mr. Graves on Friday evening and manages to only spill a little bit of water on herself. He politely pretends not to see it. They talk about Tina’s latest case, until Graves finishes his whisky and asks, “Do you think he’ll be alright?”

She doesn’t have an answer for that. She’s waiting on a letter — or a sign. And, so it seems, is Mr. Graves, who tells her to call him Percival but still calls her Goldstein.

Exactly two weeks after Newt Scamander and Credence Barebone leave America, the two Goldstein sisters wake up to two things: an envelope stuffed with letters from London and the New York Ghost.

The headline reads, “GRINDELWALD ESCAPES.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read this and ESPECIALLY to everyone who commented. You are all amazing and beautiful souls. I've never posted anything this long in public before and I've NEVER had such an amazing response to my work before. I'm floored every time someone takes the time to leave comments on this. Thank you so much!


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